Prince Charming
by Lampito
Summary: Yes, Dean is a man-slut, but he's a POLITE man-slut.  Now, he's been hit with a spell that means he must, ahem, abstain, just for a week or so.  Surely he can do that?  Can Sam and Bobby save him from himself, and a fate worse than death? COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

GROVELLING APOLOGY TO REGULAR VISITORS TO THE JIMIVERSE:

I know, I know, I'm in the middle of writing 'Can You Dig It?' but I'm having terrible trouble with AWOL Update Inspiration Fairies, and evaporating plot bunnies. "Please, ffn," I pleaded, "I need help. Send me a plot bunny, just this once." And lo and behold, a plot bunny appeared unto me. Just not the plot bunny I wanted. And it's an insistent little bastard, it came out of absolutely nowhere and it WILL NOT SHUT UP until I get this down. I'll get back right back to finishing 'Can You Dig It?', I will, but this one HAS to be expunged first. Bloody bunnies. *snivel snivel*

**SETTING:** Set in the Jimiverse, Jimi being the Winchesters' half-hellhound companion. This story takes place probably sometime after "Just Like You." It will make sense if you've read "Just Like You" and/or been reading "Can You Dig It?" so far. If you haven't, it won't.

**DISCLAIMER: **Not mine. If they were, I'd sell them to rabid fangirls and retire on the proceeds. But I'd keep Jimi, he's all mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Prince Charming<strong>

Yes, he was a man-whore. Well, maybe man-slut; whores got paid for it, and Dean did it for the fun. Mind you, he was damned _good_ at it, so he probably _could_ get paid for it, if he wanted to, but that wasn't the point, the point was, the point _was_, that yes, he was a man-slut, BUT he was a _polite_ man-slut. Beneath that roguish, devil-may-care exterior beat the heart of a gentleman. A gentleman with the morals of an alley cat, as Sam, Bobby and Castiel had pointed out to him on numerous occasions, but a gentleman nonetheless.

He was always, _always_, completely up-front about what he was after, and what he was offering: casual, no strings attached, informed consenting fun. He was a shameless womaniser, who sought out shameless manisers. He'd was very good at identifying them, telling them apart from the ones one the rebound, the ones on a biological clock countdown, the ones in search of something more and the ones who were confused, or desperate, or just too likely to get hurt.

Most of the time.

To err is human; to forgive is divine.

To really, _really_ screw something up, it helps to be a Winchester.

Which is how he found himself curled up on the back seat of the Impala, watching the sky whizz past through the window. Jimi's big square head hung over the bench seat from shotgun, gazing sympathetically at his Alpha, as he whuffed gently in moral support.

"Can I sit up yet?" asked Dean in a small voice.

"No," replied Sam sternly, "There's too many people, and too much traffic. Hang tight, bro, it's only a few hours to Bobby's."

Dean sighed. "Just for a bit?"

"No!" barked Sam. "If this is what I think it is, we cannot risk you seeing a woman. Any woman."

"But Sam..."

"Don't make me come back there and put a bag on your head," growled Sam.

"Ooooh, you flirt!" smirked Dean. "Hey, what if you have to stop at lights, and some woman senses the presence of my awesomeness, and looks in the window?"

Sam's voice was laden with dread. "If that happens, then you, big brother, are totally screwed."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It had seemed so straightforward. They were working a job that was probably a witch, cursing men and driving them to suicide, murder, or both, and they'd headed out to a bar after a frustrating day of chasing dead-ends. Dean had met an attractive young lady. She flirted. He flirted back. They chatted. He bought her a drink. He told Sam not to wait up, and went home with her. They had an evening of informed, consenting, mutually satisfying fun.

It wasn't until the sun came up and he was pulling on his jeans that he had the first inkling that something might be wrong. She asked in a bewildered tone where he was going; he gave her a cocky reply about it being time to hit the road. You can't leave me, she told him. I leave everybody, sweetheart, it's what I do, he told her. She clutched at his shirt. He disentangled her gently, and double-timed it out of there.

He shouldn't have paused on the way out, to gawp in horror, but he couldn't help it: now there was sunlight, he could see the bridal magazines and fabric swatches littering the living room, and holy crap, was that a wedding cake book on the table? That horrified hesitation gave her time to finish the incantation and fling something at him. He felt his skin prickle, there was a flash of white light…

He hurriedly found her spell book while making the scene look like a robbery gone bad, then ran back to their motel.

"I ganked our witch," he told Sam, handing over the grimoire.

"What?" Sam looked him up and down. "What happened to you?"

"She was a bunny-boiler, Sam," he shuddered, explaining the morning to his brother, "She wanted me to stay – she was planning our wedding – and she did… something."

Sam opened the book at the marker, and frowned. "Er, I think we might have a problem here," he said hesitantly, "If she's put this spell on you."

Dean felt his stomach drop. "What spell would that be, Sam?"

"Um…" Sam looked at Dean unhappily. "I'll have to check with Bobby, but I think it might be a, uh, Prince Charming spell."

"Hey, no problem," Dean relaxed, smiling, "I'm already so charming it won't have any effect on me."

"Er, it doesn't work like that," said Sam reluctantly.

"Well, you get onto it, I'll go get breakfast," Dean told him.

"NO!" Sam crash-tackled him to the floor before he could reach the door.

"Dude, I know I'm irresistible, maybe magically so now, but you're my brother, which is just wrong," Dean batted at him. "Unless you're Becky, I guess, but anyone who refers to herself as 'samlicker' has to be a bit touched in the head."

"Dean," Sam told him in a stern voice, "You cannot leave this room."

"What? I'm hungry, Sam!" Dean replied petulantly. "Why can't I leave the room?"

"Because if you do, you'll end up murdering the first woman you lay eyes on."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Whoever called them Prince Charming spells had a sick sense of humour.

Bobby confirmed Sam's suspicions, and filled in the details.

"This is one nasty piece of work," he scowled, reading through the witch's book, "Real nasty. Vindictive. You did good getting him here, Sam."

"Is somebody going to tell me what the hell that bitch did?" asked Dean a bit desperately.

"This is a Prince Charming spell," Bobby explained, "A form of binding spell. This one's a real hell-hath-no-fury job. Basically, she's cursed you to fall truly, madly, completely in love with the first woman you see, besides her, after the spell is cast."

"That's what I thought," Sam chimed in. "It could be any woman, anywhere. She could be somebody's grandmother, as ugly as sin, not speak English - you'll decide that she's the woman you've been waiting for."

"So, what happens then?" asked Dean hesitantly.

"Sometimes, all it takes is a kiss for your new beloved, and the curse lifts," Bobby elaborated. "And you're left there, feeling silly. This one, though, yowser. You'll want to spend the rest of your life with her. You'll pursue her, woo her, attempt to seduce her, and won't stop until you've married her."

"Er, what happens if she doesn't want to get married?" asked Dean tentatively.

"Then you'll stalk her, and become more desperate with each rejection. Eventually, you'll snap, and kill yourself, or her, or both."

"Okaaaaaay, not good." Dean said glumly. "Um, what about if she says yes?" he asked out of morbid curiosity.

"Ah, that's where this one gets really bitchy," replied Bobby, "Should your passionate attempts to woo the woman concerned be successful, well, from what I can figure out, you will be blissfully happy up until the moment you are pronounced husband and wife - when you kiss the bride, the curse lifts, and there you are, married, and wondering what the fuck happened and what the hell you ever saw in this person."

"Fuck," breathed Sam. "I thought it looked nasty, but… fuck."

Dean turned desperate eyes on them both. "Oh fuck," he moaned, "Oh fuck, marriage, that's a fate worse than death, right?" His eyes darted wildly around the room, like those of a cornered animal. "You have to fix this," he pleaded, "You have to fix this, if we don't find a way to fix this, I'm screwed! Figuratively only! I'll have to become a hermit monk! No more bars! No more visits to Hooters! No more watching strippers! No more lap dancers! No more watching outdoor aerobics classes! _I'll never get laid again!_" His voice had risen to a shrill shriek, and he looked just about ready to cry.

"Now, calm down, boy," Bobby reassured him, looking through the grimoire, "This won't last forever. Looks like she didn't give it much juice – usually, you wouldn't have to, 'cause a man would be bound to see a woman within an hour or so of casting it. You, luckily, had your brother to figure out what the hell happened. She wouldn't have expected that." He flipped through pages. "You can just wait this out. I can work up a small diagnostic spell to check, but I'm sure this won't last more than a week, tops." He looked at Dean. "All we have to do is keep you here, safe, for a few days, away from women, and the curse will dissipate by itself."

"There you go, bro," smiled Sam sympathetically, "Even you can go for a few days without sex."

"Yeah, yeah, I guess I can," sighed Dean. "It'll be tough, but I can do this." He turned a resolute face to Bobby. "I can handle this." Beside him, Jimi whuffed in support, nuzzling Dean's leg.

"Good man." Bobby headed for his study. "You stay here, indoors. Sam, you come with me, we got us some wards to work up, just in case."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Bobby and Sam warded the borders of the yard, so that nothing female besides his dogs Rumsfeld and Janis could approach without setting off a warning. There were a couple of false alarms that turned out to be cats or squirrels, but otherwise, it wasn't really a problem – The salvage yard never had many visitors to begin with. And a salvage yard was not really a place that women flocked to anyway.

It wasn't so bad, really, staying indoors for a week or so. Dean slept late, read car magazines, messed up Sam's laptop, cleaned weapons and watched TV, with Jimi to keep him company. Sam read in Bobby's study, assisting the old Hunter with the current translation he was working on, and found them a job to take up as soon as Dean's curse had dispelled. It was relaxed. Kind of peaceful. Convivial, even.

One evening, the three of them sat on the sofa, watching a rerun of _Aliens_, occasionally throwing corn chips or microwave popcorn at each other, while Jimi and Janis snoozed in front of the fire. It might've been the noise from the TV, as that distracted them. It could've been Dean's earsplitting cries of "Ripleeeeeeeeeeeee!" every time a small, shrill girl appeared on the screen. It could just have been that they'd fallen into a comfortable routine, and the week was just about up. Whatever the reason was, they didn't hear a vehicle pull into the yard.

They didn't notice anything, until another dog trotted into the living room, and they heard a voice behind them say,

"Hey, what are you fellas up to that's so engrossing? Watching porn?"

Bobby turned, his expression stricken, and groaned. "Balls."

Sam turned, and gaped in horror, his mind racing, insisting _Oh God oh God oh God it must've worn off by now it must've worn off by now it must've worn off by now it must've worn off by now it must've worn off by now… _

Then Dean turned.

Sam's heart sank as his brother's face lit up with a 100 watt Killer Smile, and he stood up, saying,

"Ronnie! Hi! Have you done something different with your hair?"

* * *

><p>I think this stands as a one-shot, although I stand to be corrected - strangeness would definitely ensue. There would be baking. And screaming. And a small amount of unexpected nudity, no doubt. What do the denizens of the Jimiverse think?<p>

Reviews are the Suggestive Battery-Powered Presents at the Hen's Night of Life.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, then, since we've got a wee bit of interest as to where this might go, I'm game if you are - I am still working on 'Can You Dig It?', true dinks. It's the fault of the wretches who keep shooing plot bunnies in my direction...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

"Er, not really," replied Ronnie, eyeing the older Winchester dubiously. "Unless you count chupacabra guts. I think it was suffering from some sort of stomach upset. Somebody it ate must've disagreed with it." She picked self-consciously at her hair. "I thought I'd gotten it all out, but it's worse than okami bile..." she looked back to the horrified expressions on Sam's and Bobby's faces. "Er, have I just walked into a meeting of the Friends Of Chupacabras Club?" she asked, perplexed.

"What are you doing here?" asked Sam, in resigned despair. "How did you get in?"

"I have some stuff for Bobby," she replied, holding up a small bag, "Werewolf teeth. Got a C1 canine, this time. Serious mojo in these things. And I came through the front door." She looked from one to the other. "Er, do I have something really nasty on my head? Besides chupacabra guts, I mean. Because if you lot don't stop looking at me like that, I'm going to start splashing holy water around..." She took in the two horrified faces, and the one smiling one. "Especially at him."

"We got a problem, Ronnie," Bobby sighed heavily, "And now, it's your problem too."

"He got hit by a Prince Charming spell," explained Sam, "And we've been keeping him stashed here until it wore off, except..." he gestured helplessly at her.

Ronnie frowned. "Why the hell didn't you ward the place against women?" she asked. "Not like you to be that sloppy, Bobby."

"They did," smiled Dean, "Not just against women, but against anything female, except the dogs. Good thing they screwed up, huh?"

"We didn't screw up," countered Sam hotly, "It was working! Bobby, how the hell did..."

"A_hem_," said Bobby pointedly to Sam, with a brief but meaningful bout of eyebrow semaphore.

Sam's brain caught up with his mouth. "Oh. _Oh_. Er." He subsided. "Er, yeah, we must've screwed it up. And here you are."

Ronnie looked from Sam to Dean, then burst out laughing.

"Oh, this is too funny!" she said eventually, "Of all the people to get hit! Of all the women for him to see! Oh, fuck me, this is priceless!" She subsided a bit at the angry look on Sam's face. "Oh, come on, it's a bit funny."

Dean was watching her, entranced. "You should smile like that more often," he said, "You have the most gorgeous smile." That set Ronnie off again.

"Oh, I like him like this!" she positively giggled. "You can be a friendly little fella when you want to be, can't you?"

To Sam's horror, Dean let The Killer Smile slide into place. "You have no idea how friendly I can be," he purred, "And I like to think I'm _very_ choosy about who I get friendly with." That set her off into gales of laughter again.

"Ronnie, this is not funny," growled Sam.

"Yes it is. It's frigging hilarious."

"No, it's _not_," Bobby backed him up sternly, "And don't you go making it worse, or I swear, woman, I will shoot you full of si... several rounds." Ronnie subsided, and cleared her throat.

"Yeah, okay, you're right. I'm sorry. No, I'm not really, but... okay, let's just fix this." She turned to Dean. "I am going to have such fun ragging your arse about this for the next… well, forever, really. Get your phone ready, Sam, I want a picture of the look on his face when this curse lifts. Come on, then, Casanova, you know what to do?"

Dean's face lit up like a dog offered a marrow bone. "Ohhhh, yeah," he breathed, the Killer Smile cranking up another hundred watts or so.

"Right." Ronnie turned her face, offering a cheek. "Lay it on me, Prince Charming."

"No, wait, it's not like..." began Sam. But it was too late.

Dean closed the distance between them, and swept Ronnie into A Kiss.

It was a kiss that could've stopped time, ended worlds, or made the Earth move. It was a kiss that made the beach scene in 'From Here To Eternity' look like a short bout of hand-holding. It was a kiss that would've melted the heart of the White Witch of Narnia. It would've made Rudolph Valentino hand in his arab head-dress. It was a kiss that had turned women across the US into quivering, wanton she-demons of the bedroom. It was a kiss that would have Deangirls squeeing until windows shattered. It was Dean Winchester kissing Like He Meant it.

Bobby gawped in startled horror. Sam heard a small shriek, and realised that it had come from himself.

Several seconds later, another shriek sounded, much louder, from Ronnie this time.

"AAAAARGH!" she screeched, face a picture of terrified confusion. "YAAAAAARGH! His TONGUE! His TONGUE! IT went right into my MOUTH!" She stared wildly from Sam to Bobby and back again, then let out another shriek as words failed her. "That's... AAAARGH! That's DISGUSTING!" She stared in horror at Dean. "You... you... you... weirdo!" Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him. "If you are pranking me, Winchester," she breathed dangerously, "I swear, I will tear you limb from limb, eat your heart, and use your blood as hair setting lotion..."

Dean sighed, besotted. "You really are magnificent when you're angry," he said dreamily.

"Ronnie!" snapped Bobby, "Stop it! That won't work! Just calm down..."

"Calm down? CALM DOWN? After that sick bastard did... THAT? What the hell was that about?" she demanded shrilly of Dean.

"That was us just gettin' warmed up," he told her, still beaming. Ronnie let out another little shriek, and scuttled behind Bobby. Dean looked confused.

"This spell is a bit more than your average Prince Charming curse," Bobby told her. "Now, I think we all need to sit down, and calm down, and discuss this like adults." They sat, Sam positioning himself between Dean and Ronnie on the sofa, as Bobby explained the nasty details of this particular curse.

"Jesus suffering fuck," breathed Ronnie in disbelief. Her eyes darted desperately around the room, a cornered animal looking for a way out. "Right, I'm out of here," she announced, standing up and calling Joni.

Dean looked stricken. "But you only just got here," he said, in a bewildered tone.

"I have to go," she insisted, backing away nervously, "I'm expected, Ian needs me to back him up on a job…"

Dean was on his feet, eyes narrowed in suspicion. In alarm, Sam recognised his brother going into Predator mode.

"Who the hell is Ian?" Dean asked quietly, dangerously.

"What? He's a Hunt buddy! I team up with him sometimes. He's like the big brother I never had. Why the hell am I justifying this to you?" She turned back to Bobby, pleading, "Bobby, he thinks it could be werewolves, more than one, he needs my… _expertise_." More eyebrow aerobics followed.

"Ian is a big boy," Bobby told her sternly, "And he doesn't take any crap from _werewolves_, as well you know…" his eyebrows did their own gymnastics routine (with half twist in the pike position).

"Bobby," Ronnie tried again, "It's _full moon_ in a couple of days." _waggle-waggle_.

"Yeah, but that's not going to be a _problem_ for _us_, here, is it?" asked Sam. _waggle-waggle?_

"No, of course not," said Bobby firmly, looking at Ronnie. "I'm sure it'll all be _under control_." _waggle-WAGGLE-waggle._

"See? You can stay here!" chirped Dean happily. His expression turned briefly confused again. "Sam, is there something wrong with your face?"

"You sit your ass down, woman," rumbled Bobby authoritatively, "And have a nice hot cup of calm the fuck down. You aint goin' anywhere until we figure out a way to fix this."

"You have to be kidding," said Ronnie in disbelief, "I'm not staying in the same grid square as Rabid Romeo here, let alone under the same roof!"

"No point runnin', he'll just follow you," noted Bobby matter-of-factly, "And his Baby will outrun your pick-up, and you know it."

"Ronnie, you have to stay!" Sam told her anxiously. "You heard Bobby, he'll go nuts! Become homicidal, suicidal, or both!"

"Hmmmm, Dean Winchester acting homicidal or suicidal – how will we tell?" she asked tartly.

"Look, it'll just be for a few days, while me and Bobby figure something out," Sam assured her. "Please." He deployed the puppy-dog eyes, hoping that someone who had Hunted with dogs for so long would be susceptible to that sort of blackmail.

"This is in your job description, Ronnie," Bobby reminded her, "Save the humans from the things that go bump in the night. Well, a nasty curse is pretty damned big bump."

"Come on, Ronnie, don't go - things bumping in the night isn't always bad," leered Dean, with a distinctly different sort of eyebrow waggle.

Ronnie groaned, and dropped heavily back onto the sofa. "Oh, God, a conscience is a dreadful thing to be burdened with. You owe me for this, Singer." She looked at Dean. "So, I'll hang around and help save the human from the bump," she agreed. Then her voice turned into an actual whine. "But who's going to save _me_ from _him_?"

Sam sat down next to her, and tried to be encouraging. "Look, we have the witch's book, this will only take a few days, absolute tops," he told her, "And I can tell you, wild horses won't get him to admit it out loud, but Dean is in fact a gentleman. He has never forced himself on a woman, and he's not about to start now. Are you, Dean?" Sam glared meaningfully at his brother.

Dean looked suitably outraged at the thought. "No!" he declared emphatically. "No! Absolutely not! I don't operate that way. I don't have to." He went back to beaming adoringly at Ronnie.

"See?" Sam told her, "You'll be perfectly safe. The whole, um, kiss thing, was just a, uh, misunderstanding, when you said, you know, he should do it. We're all adults here, we can talk about this, and deal."

"O-okay," Ronnie didn't sound completely convinced. "I guess I'd better get my stuff."

"I'll give you a hand," said Dean immediately, springing up.

"No!" she yelped. "No! Sit! Stay!" Dean dropped back to the sofa, still smiling.

"Okay," he agreed, grinning. "If I roll over, will you scratch my belly?"

Ronnie let out a terrified squeak and fled, Joni hot on her heels.

Bobby let out the breath he'd been holding. "Well, looks like our luck might be in after all, if the Dean Winchester Code Of Honour will still hold in the face of this curse." He frowned at Dean. "It will hold, won't it?" he asked.

Dean looked affronted. "I'm insulted, Bobby," he said in a hurt voice. "It's not like I'm going to jump on her."

"Good." grunted Bobby.

"Not until she realises how much she wants me," finished Dean smugly, "Then she'll jump on me."

"Oh, God," sighed Sam, head dropping into his hands. "Dean, you have to remember, it's a curse making you behave this way. The curse, remember?"

"Yeah, I know, the Prince Charming curse. Making me fall head over heels for the first woman I see." Dean's smile was blinding. "How damned lucky that it happened to be the right one for me who walked into it, huh? What are the odds of that?"

"Kill me now," groaned Sam, as Ronnie reappeared with a bag on one shoulder.

"Room at the end of the hall," Bobby told her.

"I'm going to bed. Alone," she announced with a yawn. She fixed Dean with a glare, baring her teeth. "If you get within ten feet of the door of my room," she said softly, "I will tear your head off, shit down your neck, use your pancreas for a bookmark, tap-dance on your liver and make earrings out of your balls before scooping your brains out of your skull with a spoon and using it for a bowling ball." She bade Sam and Bobby goodnight, and headed upstairs, followed by her dog.

Dean sighed, the dreamy look back on his face. "Oh, yeah," he smiled to himself, "She wants me."

* * *

><p>This could get really silly. So, Bartlebead has them up a tree, aeicha insists that 'Dean nudity is something that must always be explored'. Any other requests?<p>

Reviews are the Gratuitous Nudity in the FanFiction Of Life!


	3. Chapter 3

Oh dear, this one's taking on a life of its own, isn't it? I blame the bunnies. Okay, so we have to find out why Ronnie reacted the way she did. And of course there has to be that gratuitous nudity. And Bartlebead's tree. We'll get to it. Are you with us again, elf? FFN is being buggy recently.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

_Ronnie was poring over one of Bobby's books, lost in concentration, coffee forgotten at her elbow. Noiselessly, he sneaked up behind her… he grabbed the clip holding her hair, and jumped backwards._

_She let out a small shriek, grabbed at the back of her head as her hair fell down her back. She turned and glared at him._

"_I wondered what you looked like with your hair out," he smirked, waving his trophy._

"_You, Dean Winchester, are a bad boy." she declared, with a smile that emphasised the 'bad' in that sentence. "You were clearly not properly trained when you were younger." She rose from her chair, walking, no, stalking towards him._

"_Oh, you think so?" he teased. "And I've tried so hard to be a good boy."_

"_Not hard enough," she surmised, "But I'm sure that you can be motivated to learn."_

"_Learn what?" he prompted cheekily._

_She slid forward noiselessly. "Oh, the amusing little tricks I like my… companion to know," she purred, "Like… Sit. Stay." She went up on her toes, and whispered in his ear. "Lie down. Roll over. Beg."_

"_So, how do you teach a bad boy to do those things?" he asked, slightly breathlessly._

"_I prefer to use positive reinforcement, lots of praise and encouragement," she explained, smiling up at him, "Rewards for good behaviour. Learning should always be fun. Can you be motivated by rewards and fun, Dean? Don't you want to be a good boy?" She arched one eyebrow._

"_What if I can't help myself?" he breathed._

_She reached back to the table behind her and picked up a newspaper. She held his gaze while she rolled it up, slowly. "Baaaaad boys," she growled, "Get… punished..."…_

Sam winced, and rolled over to face the wall. Dean was making _those_ noises, indicating that he was having one of _those_ dreams.

There were some things you just couldn't escape from, with two grown men living practically in each other's pockets, but for the sake of, well, just not going insane, some things, you pretended you didn't see, or hear. Like the feudal Japanese philosophy of The Eightfold Fence; a society that lived in houses with paper walls learned pretty damned quickly to ignore what was going on in the next room.

Some nights, Sam would flush with mortification, wondering if he ever made noises like that, when he occasionally had that sort of dream. He was pretty sure that if he did, Dean wouldn't have been able to resist making some sort of comment at some time. But maybe not. So, in the interests of just, well, you know, being able to look at each other in the morning, he lay still, and pretended nothing was happening, his brother wasn't making those noises, and…

_creak creak creak creak_

Nope, his brother definitely was not humping the mattress in his sleep. No mattress humping here, folks, move along…

_creak creak creak creakcreakcreakCREAKCREAK_

Sam pulled the pillow over his head, and prayed for sleep, morning, or death. He wasn't choosy.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

I'm not freaking out, Ronnie told herself, I'm not freaking out, I'm not freaking out, I'm not freaking out…

She heard a small noise in the darkness and sat up suddenly, knife in hand, utterly freaked out.

A large pair of brown eyes gazed curiously at her; Joni had gotten up to turn around on her blanket, that was all. Ronnie sighed. It was just the dog.

She had called Ian to explain the situation, and he had laughed at her. Laughed like a loon, the miserable arsehole. Even gave her some tips on what to do on a first date. She had hurled abuse at him, and warned that her revenge, when it came, would be terrible. There would be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. He had subsided to chuckling – or maybe it was chortling – and told her that he'd handle the job, and to give him a call if things got really bad.

Resigned, she lay down again.

Sensing her Alpha's disquiet, Joni thumped her tail on the floor, and offered a quiet whumph of reassurance.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Ronnie whuffed back at the dog. "I'm being an idiot." She shut her eyes, smiling to herself. Joni was a wonderful dog, finely attuned to her Alpha's moods. She always seemed to know just when to offer reassurance. So it didn't really surprise her when, three-quarters asleep just before sunrise, she felt the bed dip – Joni had decided that Ronnie needed some up-close comfort. She often did that if a Hunt went south, or her Hunter was rattled about anything. There wasn't much room in a single bed for a human and a fully grown Rottweiler, but the warmth and companionship was reassuring – sometimes, something deep in Ronnie yearned for the Pack. She reached up and patted the furry head trying to sneak onto her pillow.

"Dog breath," she mumbled fondly.

"I can go clean my teeth," offered Dean.

The screams woke the rest of the house.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Bobby was last to reach the end room. "What the hell are you idjits playing at?" he demanded, pushing past Sam and Jimi and Joni, who were all filling the door and looking on curiously.

The screaming was coming from Ronnie - she had Dean pinned on the floor and was threatening to cut his throat.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM?" she screamed.

"I came in to say good morning," he told her, beaming at her.

"Um, Ronnie," interrupted Sam carefully, "Do you think you could, er, you know, stop making like you're about to scalp him?"

"SHADAAAAAP!" bellowed Bobby. Silence descended. "Somebody wanna tell me what's goin' on, here, at an hour when decent folks are in bed?"

"He was on my bed!" Ronnie hissed venomously. "I was asleep, and I woke up, and there's this, this, this _nose_ right in front of my face!"

"Hey, you didn't mind," complained Dean, a tad resentfully. "You wanted to cuddle."

"That's because I thought you were Joni!" retorted Ronnie.

"You stroked my hair..." he sighed.

"I thought you were my bloody dog!"

"Okay," sighed Bobby tiredly, "Ronnie, put that thing away, and get off Dean."

"You don't have to, I don't mind," Dean put in quickly. "It's kinda hot when a woman gets assertive and wants to take charge," he grinned.

Ronnie muttered something unladylike.

"Now, since I have been rudely awakened," continued Bobby, "I might as well get up and make a start on tryin' to undo this curse. It will go quicker if I have Sam to help me, but if you can't behave yourself, Dean, he'll be put on chaperone duty. You will not sneak up on Ronnie in bed again, you hear me?" He turned to Ronnie. "We will sort this mess out – in the mean time, you will not pull a weapon on him, understand?"

"What about claws, er, bare hands?" mumbled Ronnie mutinously.

"I'm sorry, madam?" asked Bobby sweetly, "I didn't quite here that."

"I said, yes, Bobby," she replied, "But I reserve the right to slap him". Bobby grunted, satisfied with that.

"Now then," he decided, "Why don't we have breakfast, and pretend like we're normal people for a while?"

A ragged chorus of "Yes, Bobby"s followed.

"Will you pet me again?"

"No."

"What about if I fetch your slippers?"

"NO!"

"I could be a good boy for you…"

"In that case: Play Dead."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Research into breaking the curse started off sensibly enough, with all of them clustered in the living room, Bobby and Sam consulting Bobby's books, and Ronnie and Dean using the laptops. Ronnie paused increasingly frequently to throw murderous glances at Dean, while he replied with dazzling smiles. After about an hour, Dean looked up with a hurt expression.

"Hey, what did you do that for?"

"What?" Sam looked up from the book he was consulting.

"She turned off messenger," complained Dean. "Why did you do that?"

"Because you kept messaging me!" scowled Ronnie, turning the laptop around to show Sam the damning evidence.

_**ImpalaDude **__Hey, Ronnie!_

_**K9**__ That's you, isn't it, Dean?_

_**ImpalaDude**__ Yahtzee! I'm bored._

_**K9**__ You're supposed to be chasing up that herb lore for Sam._

_**ImpalaDude**__ I wanna do something fun. You wanna do something fun?_

_**K9**__ Not with you. Pervert._

_**ImpalaDude**__ I can think of something I'd rather be doing._

_**ImpalaDude**__ Wanna know what that is?_

_**K9**__ No_

_**ImpalaDude**__ It's you._

_**ImpalaDude **__Hahahahahahahahahahaha!_

_**K9**__ Stop it._

_**ImpalaDude**__ You need to loosen up a bit._

_**K9**__ You need to get your mind above your belt._

_**ImpalaDude**__ You look very tense. You need a backrub?_

_**K9**__ You look very annoying. You need your face clawed off?_

_**ImpalaDude **__We could blow off these two geeks, and go do something interesting._

_**K9**__ No._

_**ImpalaDude**__ We could go kill something evil._

_**K9**__ Don't tempt me._

_**ImpalaDude**__ I could show you my scar collection._

_**ImpalaDude**__ Ronnie?_

_**ImpalaDude**__ I know you're there. I can see you._

_**ImpalaDude**__ RONNIEEEEEEEEEE! Speak to me!_

_**ImpalaDude**__ Do you have any idea how hot it is when you play hard to get?_

_**K9**__ Piss off_

_**ImpalaDude**__ You got any hickeys?_

_**K9**__ WHAT?_

_**ImpalaDude**__ Would you like some?_

_**K9**__ You got any sucking chest wounds?_

_**ImpalaDude**__ I'm the hotdog, you're the bun, let's get nude and have some fun!_

Sam turned accusing eyes on Dean. "You're supposed to be looking something up for me," he accused.

"I am, look, I found some stuff," protested Dean. He smiled at his brother. "Don't feel bad, Sam, it's not your fault you're not as interesting as Ronnie, but you'll always be my brother."

Ronnie stood up. "I'm going outside," she said, calling Joni from her spot on the rug, "If I'm stuck here, I might as well sort out the truck."

"I can give you a hand," chirped Dean sunnily.

"Sam, will you please call your brother to heel?" Ronnie pleaded.

"That may not be possible, or even advisable," put in Bobby regretfully, from where he was poring over the witch's spell book. "Anything that thwarts his, er, adoration may well accelerate the psychosis that will result from rejection." The old Hunter offered her an apologetic look.

"Can we lock him in the panic room, then?"

Dean looked enthusiastic. "Hey," he said, grabbing Ronnie around the waist from behind, "You wanna handcuff me to the bed down there?" She shrieked and leaped away from him.

"Aaargh! Hands! Hands! Can we at least put a muzzle on him? _Don't say a word you kinky bastard_!"

"Look, the Gentleman Dean Code Of Honour is holding," Sam told her, "He really won't do anything… unseemly, he'll just be… annoying. Well, even more annoying than usual. Which, I acknowledge, is pretty damned annoying."

"Fine," she slumped in defeat. "Fine." She glared at Dean. "You stay the hell out of the way."

"No, really, I can help…"

"It's just an oil and filter change."

Dean followed her. "I'm really good at that sort of thing. If you want your brakes bled, your radiator flushed… and I'd be more than happy to grease your nipples…"

The slap resounded down the hallway.

Dean gave Sam and Bobby a big grin, a brief thumbs up, and followed Ronnie outside.

Some time later, Ronnie stomped back into the house with a face like thunder, and Dean stood on the porch with most of the contents of an oil pan dumped over him.

"What the hell happened?" asked Sam, handing him a handful of shop rags.

"Definite progress, Sammy," enthused Dean, "She said she was going to strip the thread off my nuts – that's gotta be dirty talk for something, yeah?" His happy smile stood out white against the muck dripping down his face. Yep," he said contentedly, "She's definitely warming towards me."

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Synthetic Oil in the Sump Of Life.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, this way for up a tree, and gratuitous nudity! Please form an orderly queue, tickets will be available from... no, no, no, I didn't mean gratuitous nudity _while_ up a tree, they're not simultaneous... oh, damn, now we all have to wait for elf, PaulatheCat and aeicha to come back inside...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

"Ronnie? Ronnie!" Sam looked out into the yard; she could be anywhere. "Ronnie!" he called again. "Look, I know he's annoying, but this is really serious." No answer. "He's inside, having some sort of panic attack because you've disappeared."

A low, guttural growl that 10,000 years ago would've said 'Don't run; you'll just die tired' from the back of a dark cave reached his ears.

"I'm not kidding," he said, turning and looking for the source of the growl, "He's hyperventilating and turning blue, and he's barely coherent. Bobby's considering sedating him."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," replied a disgruntled disembodied voice. Sam turned around again, but saw nothing. "Up here, you berk."

Sam looked up. "Er, what are you doing up a tree?" he asked.

"What do you think? Looking for the bluebird of happiness? I'm hiding!" she hissed at him. "Found anything yet?"

"Nothing concrete, but…"

"Then go away!" she flapped a hand frantically at him.

"Ronnie, please…"

"You are giving away my co-ordinates! Shoo!"

"He's going insane in there!"

"Better him than me!" she wailed. "He's more persistent than a Terminator! He's more persistent than Jehovah's Witnesses! He's more persistent than herpes!"

"It's not his fault!" Sam defended his brother. "He's cursed! You're safe, you know, he won't do anything unless you say yes…"

Ronnie relented, and slid down the tree. "He keeps… saying things," she stuttered.

"Well, that's not so bad, is it?" he reasoned. Her face flushed.

"No, I mean, he keeps saying… _things…_" her ears turned red. "You know. _Things_."

"Yeah, but so long as he keeps his hands off… oh. Er. Oh," Sam caught on. "_Things_ things."

She nodded. "I think some of them he might be making up, or maybe he's just watched too much porn," she confided, "Because I find it hard to believe that anybody could enjoy doing…"

"_RONNIE!_" the shout of relief echoed around the yard. Dean made a high-speed beeline for the tree. Ronnie yelped, and shot back up it.

"Dean, I think we need to talk about thi- OOF!" Sam grunted as his brother used him as a stepladder to get to a low branch.

Sam humphed in exasperation and went back inside, leaving Dean promising escapades of carnal delight, and Ronnie making barely comprehensible suggestions of her own in what he assumed was her native dialect of Antipodean English.

"So, Pepé le Pew still after his reluctant pussycat?" asked Bobby, checking another book.

"Uhuh," confirmed Sam, watching the foliage rustling outside. "I think it's getting worse. He's just chased her up a tree."

"Well, at least we know where they are. And they can't get up to much up a tree."

"It wouldn't be the first time, Bobby - this is Dean we're talking about. Location means nothing to him," Sam reminded him, shuddering involuntarily at the memory of his big brother recounting a mind-boggling arboreal conquest "It was in Oregon. She was a horticulturalist. I didn't believe him. Then when he started to demonstrate, I didn't WANT to believe him." He looked out the window. "Although that branch looks a bit springy." He turned to Bobby. "Should we do something?"

"I wouldn't worry too much, Sam," Bobby told him, "They can't stay up there all night. It's the law of gravity. What goes up, must…"

There was a distinct _crack_ of wood giving way, a frantic rustling of leaves, and a startled squawk, followed by a thump.

"…Come down."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_I'm getting too old for this sort of crap_, Bobby told himself.

Dean appeared, in the living room, tears in his eyes and Ronnie in his arms. "She fell out of the tree," he quavered. "Bobby, she fell out of the tree!"

"Put me down! Put me down!" demanded Ronnie querulously. "There's nothing wrong with me! Put me dow-OW!"

"She's broken her leg!" wailed Dean, depositing her on the sofa.

"No I haven't," she insisted, swatting at him, "It just got tweaked on the way down, I'm fine, I've got a few bumps and bruises is all, it wasn't that far…" she looked pleadingly to Sam and Bobby. "Tell him I'm fine," she begged.

"Let's not over-react here, boy," Bobby told Dean, who hovered anxiously, twisting his hands together, while Ronnie removed her boot. "Why don't you go get her an ice pack?"

"Ice pack, ice pack," Dean muttered, heading for the kitchen. Bobby narrowed his eyes at Ronnie.

"This has to stop," he declared.

"You're telling me," she agreed, wiggling her foot experimentally.

"I mean the whole playing hard to get routine," he corrected. She looked outraged.

"What? I'm not playing hard to get!" she snapped, "I'm playing hard to want!"

"The problem is, he can't see that, with this curse," continued Bobby. "I know you don't like it, but you rejecting him, and doin' it so, er, assertively, will just accelerate it! If we're going to figure this out before he tries to shoot himself – or you, might I remind you…"

"Won't do him any good, he's not packing silver. I could smell it," she interrupted a bit smugly.

"Maybe not, but I will be," growled Bobby. "Like I was sayin', we need time to figure this out. It would help if you could, you know, fend him off… gently. Politely. Be friendly about it."

Ronnie boggled at him in disbelief. "Gently? Gently? Fend him off _gently_? I might as well try to stop a wendigo with a rubber chicken!"

"What you're doing now isn't working," reasoned Sam, "If you try to be a bit more, um, friendly about it, he might even be a bit more bearable."

"No," she shook her head, "No. What if he thinks being friendly means I'm leading him on? What if it makes him worse?'

"Worse?" asked Sam. "Ronnie, he just tried to seduce you _up a tree_. How can it get worse than that?"

Ronnie's face turned red again. "Look," she said hesitantly, "I'm really no good at this sort of thing…"

"Then improvise!" hissed Sam with a glare, hearing Dean returning. "No real damage, bro," he said to Dean, smiling reassuringly, "Right, Ronnie?" His eyebrows performed a brief salsa routine.

"Er, no. No. Not really." Ronnie took the proffered ice pack, and forced her face into an expression that was 49% grimace/51% smile. "Thank you."

"Thank you?" echoed Dean faintly. Behind him, Sam and Bobby pantomimed 'happy face' furiously at her.

Ronnie turned the grinometer up to 55% smile. "Er, yes. Thank you. For the ice pack." She draped it across her ankle. "It was, um, very thoughtful of you."

Wretched hope bloomed in Dean's swimming eyes. "You're not… mad at me?" he ventured.

Sam and Bobby performed a Synchronised Eyebrow Trampolining routine worthy of Olympic standard competition.

"Um… no, of course not," she said hesitantly. "It was… an accident. My own silly fault. For going up a tree. And being dumb enough to give away my position to a spy…" she added under her breath.

Dean suddenly threw himself to his knees by the sofa, into her arms. "Oh, God," he snuffled, "I thought you'd be so mad at me…"

Sam and Bobby's eyebrows would've had the audience on their feet, throwing roses.

Hesitantly, Ronnie put an arm around him. "Um, there there?" she said uncertainly, patting him gingerly on the shoulder.

Dean pulled back and looked at her. "You're really not mad?"

Ronnie went for 60%. "No. Definitely not. Why would I be angry? After all, you… rescued me. After I fell out of the tree." She patted him on the shoulder again. 65%. "My hero."

Dean's smile fairly blazed with relieved happiness.

"Why don't you go and put some coffee on," she suggested, "Then we can get back to helping Sam and Bobby find a way to lift this curse?" 70%. "I promise I won't shut Messenger off," she added. 75%.

Dean practically left contrails as he headed back to the kitchen.

"You have to work on that smile," commented Sam, opening one of the books on the table, "And try to be a little less stiff with the gestures. Shoulder-patting is good, but you gotta try to be more spontaneous about it."

"Yes, Coach," she grumbled, the needle plummeting right back to zero.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean hummed happily to himself. And why wouldn't he be happy? Ronnie wasn't angry at him; if anything, she seemed friendlier. She'd _smiled_ at him. He was sure he was well on the way to convincing her of his awesomeness.

_My hero. _Tonight, he would clutch those words to his... heart.

Okay, so they hadn't made any progress with the curse, but he was cool with that. He had more important things to think about, after all.

He still felt bad about the whole tree incident. He was determined to make it up to her.

Thankfully, being Dean Winchester, Living Sex God, he knew just exactly how to do that…

He'd heard the shower running while Bobby and Sam had shifted to the study, following up a possible lead. Undetected, he slunk away quietly – after all, he wouldn't be much of a Hunter if he couldn't even dodge a chaperone, would he? – and headed upstairs.

Joni sat outside the bathroom door, her fine-boned face looking up at him affectionately.

"Hey there Joni," he said quietly. He ruffled her ears, and the dog's tail thumped on the floor. Ronnie might be her Alpha, but as a pup, she had spent many hours with both Winchesters, rassling with Dean and Jimi, or sitting on Sam's lap while he read. She thought of them as members of her Dam's Pack. "I screwed up with your Mom today," he confided. Joni whuffed sympathetically, offering a paw. "But it's okay, I'm going to make it up to her," he grinned confidently, putting a hand on the door handle…

_Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_

Joni put herself between him and the door, hackles up, eyes blazing angry red, hellteeth like boning knives extruded, and suddenly she looked so much _bigger_…

He dropped his hand, and Joni was once again just a fine-boned Rottweiler, smaller than Jimi, grinning doggily at him.

He frowned in thought, then put his head down the stairs and quietly called Jimi.

"Okay, here's the sitch," he told his dog, "I need you to run interference with your sister. She's totally cockblocking me. I need you to go big brother on her ass, right?" Jimi followed him back to the bathroom door.

Dean put his hand on the door handle.

Joni got her Hellhound on.

Dean raised his eyebrows at Jimi. _Well?_

A Rottweiler has a very expressive face; the look that Jimi gave his Alpha spoke volumes.

_You are my Alpha. One day, I will die defending you, because I am a Hunter's dog. This is the way of things. But, seriously, d__ude, are you NUTS? You do NOT fuck with The Sisterhood. You want an idiot for a Hunt companion, get a Beagle. You want a suicide bomber, get a Pitbull. Didn't your Sire teach you ANYTHING?_

Dean humphed in disappointment, but quickly brightened up. He was just going to have to initiate Plan B.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The household retired to bed not long after that, with a considerably more serene ambiance than it had arisen to that morning. It had been a long and frustrating day for three Upstairs Brains, and one Downstairs one.

Ronnie limped into her room, and shook out Joni's blanket. Being nice to Dean didn't come easily, especially when he was being so… yes, well. The ignorant twerp had once called her a Limey, and that was the sort of thing that usually got taken outside, but in his defence, he was a Hunter, and a damned good one, so it wasn't entire unexpected that she would set off his Spidey senses, what with her little excessive body hair problem threatening every full moon. It had been hard to keep in check when he'd startled her in the morning – she'd been sure she could feel her fangs trying to pop out in self-defence…

She made ready for bed. The great thing about the occasional stay at Chez Singer was that it was safe – it was warded tighter than a nun's ladygarden, and for a change, she could actually relax. She stretched, yawned, and pulled back the covers.

The scream brought Bobby, Sam and both dogs running.

It wasn't exactly the response Dean was expecting, as he lay there wearing nothing but his most come-hither smile. But she didn't try to stab him, so things were totally looking up.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Here." In the kitchen, Sam pushed the mug of hot, sweet tea laced generously with scotch into Ronnie's shaking hands. It clattered against the table top.

"He… he… he… na… na… na…" she stuttered, gasping like a fish out of water.

"Deep breaths, Ronnie," encouraged Sam, reaching behind him, "You need to breathe into the paper bag again?"

She shook her head, gulped down some tea, and tried again. "He was… he was…"

"Well, technically, if you want to be _really _pedantic about it," started Sam tactfully, "He wasn't actually, you know, in a state of _total_, er, dishabillé. Not altogether in the, um, altogether. As it were."

"Sam," Ronnie said evenly, "This could be a cultural thing, I suppose, but where I come from, holding a daisy between your teeth does not render a person decently covered."

"Uh, yeah, okay, you're probably right."

Upstairs, they could hear Bobby upbraiding Dean, demanding that he put some pants on, and stipulating that there would be none of That Sort Of Thing under his roof before the sky became green, the sun went out and the oceans turned to yoghurt. (Dean took that as a maybe.) The word 'idjit' was used repeatedly with extreme prejudice.

Sam looked thoughtful. "Er, Ronnie," he resumed carefully, choosing his words the way a man parachuted into a minefield might choose the next place he plans to put a foot, "Look, you hadn't considered, maybe, well… taking Dean up on his, er, offer of, um, intimate companionship?"

She looked at him with wide, startled eyes. "No, wait!" he hurried on, "Hear me out! Just hear me out, then tell me what you think." She eyed him dubiously.

Sam made his pitch. "Look, being frank about it, Dean is, well, a ladies' man. A very… accomplished ladies' man. Any lady he, um, spends the night with, well, let's just say, none of them regret it. Lots of 'em want to come back for seconds. I know this, because as his little brother, I am damned to occasionally being trapped while he, er, entertains a lady friend within earshot. I should be in therapy. Seriously, he could go through the Karma Sutra with a red pen, and tell them what they got wrong. He could show you a seriously good time. It wouldn't have to be here – Oh, God, I'd be ever so grateful if it wasn't, you could sidle up to him, and suggest that you take off, there are some nice places in town, and it just might modulate some of his more, er, energetic attempts to get your attention..." he rambled to a halt, and smiled his most winning I'm-Peeking-Up-At-You-Adorably-Through-My-Hair-Even-Though-You're-Down-There smile. "It's, um, just a thought. Er."

Ronnie sat very still, and for a moment Sam feared she was going to start hyperventilating again, but she just sat, nodding to herself. "I thank you for your suggestion, Sam," she replied politely, "And appreciate you trying to come up with some way to lessen the trouble for everybody. I understand that you are concerned about your brother's welfare, and just want this problem dealt with as soon as possible, with minimum collateral damage. Full marks for lateral thinking. I shall give your idea some consideration. Thank you also for the tea. I feel better." She finished her tea, and made to go back upstairs. "Might I offer my own thoughts on the situation?" she asked solicitously.

"Yes, please do," he nodded encouragement.

"Good. I would merely like to point out that, if push comes to shove, I am a little taller than you, a little hairier than you, and can punch through your sternum and tear out your still-beating heart and eat it in front of you while your brain still has enough oxygen left to watch." She smiled pleasantly, and headed for the stairs. "Goodnight, Sam."

Sam slumped. "I guess that's a no, then," he muttered glumly to himself.

* * *

><p>There you go: up a tree, and gratuitous Dean nudity. Any other requests? Do we need angelic assistance here? Just wondering.<p>

Reviews are the Springy Branches On The Way Down as we fall out of the Tree Of Life. No? Okay. Reviews are the Nekkid Dean Winchesters under the Comforter Of Life. Sorry. How about: Reviews are the Slosh Of Whiskey in the Hot Cup Of Tea Of Life? (It's not drinking if you put it in your tea: that's medicine. Nanny Ogg says so.)


	5. Chapter 5

This is kind of amusing, filling in details for Ronnie - she was only ever supposed to be an incidental character to annoy Dean with. So: is she insane? Gay? An alien? Let's find out how she manages to resist the advances of the Living Sex God...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

_It was a peaceful, secluded place. He sat on the small jetty, dangling his bare feet in the inviting lake. He heard running fee__t behind him, a shout of "Yeehee!", and Ronnie sailed past to land with a splash in the water. She bobbed up in front of him, treading water and grinning._

"_You're not supposed to go swimming in your clothes," he pointed out._

"_Anyone can strip off before they jump in," she lifted a hand and waved it dismissively. She bobbed under the water for a moment, then a pair of sopping wet sweat pants landed next to him. He jumped up as they splashed. She laughed, wriggled, and threw a wet t-shirt at him. It missed. He laughed back._

"_That the best you've got?" he teased._

_A wet foundation garment hit him square in the face, but he managed to dodge the last wet undergarment._

"_You'll get cold, and cramp up," he warned._

"_So, come and rescue me, and warm me up, Mr Lifeguard."_

_He shed his own clothes and dived in. When he bobbed to the surface, she was nowhere to be seen._

"_Ronnie?" he called, turning in the water. The lake's surface was undisturbed._

_Seconds ticked by, the first minute, minute and a half…_

_He was about start worrying when she shot up out of the water, smiling cheekily, flicking back wet hair._

"_Not much of a lifeguard," she sniffed, "I could've been drowning here."_

"_Not funny," he humphed, "I thought you'd gone down."_

"_Not yet," she said without missing a beat, smile cheekiness going up an order of magnitude, "But if you'd like to see how long I can __really__ hold my breath…"_

As _those_ dreams went, Sam gave this one a 7.5 out of ten for Disturbing Noises, an 8.0 for Probable Erotic Content, and a 9.0 for What The Hell Are You Dreaming That You're Doing?, because his brother was waving his arms and kicking his legs, yet squirming in a manner suggestive of, er, intimate contact.

"Ohhhhh, God," mumbled Dean.

Okaaaaaay, make that an 8.5 for disturbing noises.

"That's amazing," Dean gasped.

Sam pulled the covers up over his head.

"Ohhhhhh ohhhhhh aaaahhhh AAAARRRH are there fish in here?" panted Dean.

It was bad, Sam mused, it was really really bad, when it came as something of a relief when Dean finally rolled over and started getting intimate with the mattress.

_creak creak creak creak creak _

Make it stop, he begged the universe, please, just make it stop…

_c__reak creak creakcreakcreak CREAKCREAK__**CREAKCREAK **__**CREEEEEAK**_

It stopped. It… finished.

And that was so much worse.

Sam keened to himself. Maybe if he was lucky, he could just stay under the covers and he'd suffocate before morning.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

There was a knock at the door. She didn't need to ask who it was; the stink of Alpha Male On The Prowl pheromones overpowered the smell of bacon.

"What do you want, Dean?" she asked suspiciously.

"I brought you some breakfast," he replied through the door. "When you didn't come down, I thought you'd still be hungry." There was a pause. "And I wanted to make up for, you know, the tree, and, um, surprising you." Another pause. "There's bacon. And eggs. And pancakes."

She scowled suspiciously; damn him, he'd been observing his prey's feeding habits carefully. "Is there any daisy involvement?"

"Absolutely not," he replied firmly. "There's a tulip pattern on the tray, though," he added truthfully.

"Are you stark naked?" she demanded.

"No!" he answered, sounding sincere.

She considered. Maybe he did want to apologise. After all, he'd knocked, and was still waiting to be invited in. Maybe Sam was right, and trying to be a bit friendlier was toning down his, er, enthusiasm of pursuit. And she was hungry. Bacon. Pancakes. And she could smell syrup…

"Okay," she agreed cautiously, clutching the covers up to her chin, "Advance and be recognised."

He bounded into the room, put down the tray, and bounced onto her bed, with a sunny smile, waggling the bottle of syrup at her. "Coffee, tea or me?" he asked winningly.

There was no screaming, just a loud warning that carried as far as Bobby's study.

"_Dean Winchester, you put that away or I swear I will cut it off!"_

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"I'm sorry, Ronnie," said Sam meekly as they did the dishes. Bobby was, once more, using the word 'idjit' a lot. "He really seemed to want to make a peace offering."

"You are joking, right?" Ronnie scrubbed viciously at a plate. "He was naked again!"

"No he wasn't!" Sam objected.

"Yes, he was!" she insisted. "Wearing nothing but an apron still counts as naked!" She handed him the plate. "Where the hell did he get an apron saying 'Kiss The Cook!' anyway?"

"Well, he was wearing clothes under the apron when he went upstairs," qualified Sam.

"Well, he wasn't once he got there!" she hissed. "Syrup does _not_ count as clothing!" she added. "That's just… weird. And sticky. And… weird."

The words 'weird' and 'sticky' in the same sentence made a certain number of Sam's brain cells want to run around screaming inside his head and claw out their own nuclei.

Ronnie shuddered. "He said… he said… he made suggestions," she told him in a hushed voice. "Involving syrup. Without pancakes. He said… he said…" she swallowed, "He said he wanted to lick it off my scar."

Sam was saved from having to comment on that when Bobby came back into the kitchen, Dean trailing him like an unrepentant puppy taken to task for peeing on the carpet. "The research effort will reconvene in fifteen minutes," he specified, with a final glare at Dean. "Fully clothed."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It was hard going, ploughing through Bobby's books, and finding, well, nothing. Judging from Ronnie's expression, Dean was At It Again with the messaging. Sam was starting to feel desperate – was he going to have to sew Dean into his pants? – when he found a small, welcome distraction in the form of a charm. Not useful, but it was amusing. He laughed quietly to himself.

"You found something?" Bobby asked. Sam smiled.

"Not really," he said, "Just found it funny, that's all. Archaic English. 'A ryte goode charme to despelle an Righteous Man who, 'gaynst hys GODLY and DEVOUT nayture, hath been enchanted to pursew and debauche a CHASTE Woman of her PURITY, beeing wytched by a ryte evill hag'." He looked up and grinned. "School would've been easier if spelling was still a freestyle art form…" he slowed to a halt when he caught sight of Bobby's thoughtful expression. He followed the old Hunter's line of sight…

His eyes fell on Ronnie, who was sitting very still, her face going red to the roots of her hair.

Sam was confused. "Are you thinking that… er…" he looked back at Bobby. "Are you thinking that this might be useful?" He read further. "It only works if the woman concerned is a…"

Those neurons in Sam's head started running around in the other direction (one particularly shrill one was shouting "I'm a teapot!" over and over). And suddenly, a lot of things made sense.

"Holy crap," he finished, not knowing what else to say. "Just… holy crap."

"Is a what?" asked Dean, looking up from composing his latest suggestive message.

"Ronnie?" asked Bobby softly. She looked up, smiled weakly, and nodded.

"Holy crap," said Sam again. "You're really… you've never… " She shook her head.

"What?" demanded Dean, tuning in to the suddenly changed vibe of the room.

Sam read to the end of the page. "I think we can use this," he pronounced, "Since Ronnie is, um… you've really never got to home base?" he blurted out.

She looked at him with amusement. "Sam," she told him, "If you're going to use the baseball metaphor, then strictly speaking, I've never been out of the dugout." She gave Dean a sour look. "And frankly, if that is what first base is supposed to be like," she announced, "I think I'll just strike out on purpose."

Dean's brain finally caught up with his ears.

"What?" he asked, bewildered. "Do you mean that she's…what, never?... you're… you're a…"

"VIRGIN!" she suddenly barked. Sam and Dean both flinched. "Well, that's interesting," she noted, "It works on you both the way 'Christo' works on demons. Who knew?"

Dean stared, open-mouthed at Ronnie. His expression was probably best described as compassionate horrified fascination. "How? I mean… how?"

"It's quite simple, Dean," continued Ronnie, calmly, "All you have to do to qualify is never have had sex. I can understand that this concept is probably very difficult for you to grasp." The Winchesters' bewilderment seemed to amuse her, especially Dean's. "What with… _one thing and another,_" she continued, eyebrows performing a highland fling for Sam and Bobby's benefit, "The right guy just… never came along before."

"So you've never… and you've never… or… what, not even…?" stuttered Dean.

"I have actually been kissed before, once," she clarified, "By Max."

"Ah, a boy at school?" asked Sam.

"No, a German Shepherd. It's okay, we were both informed consenting three-year-olds," she explained. "His tongue was even more prehensile than yours," she told Dean.

"So, er, what do we need, Sam?" asked Bobby, bringing the conversation back to the problem at hand.

"Oh, uh, not that much," replied Sam, scanning the charm again. "It's quite simple, a few strands of hair from the, er Woman of Purity, and a few from the Righteous Man, and some herbs, I think you'll have all of this."

"Okay, then, let's make a start," said Bobby. Sam followed Bobby out of the living room, leaving Dean still gaping at Ronnie.

"Suggest you shut that, Dean," she told him, "You'll catch flies."

"What? Oh, yeah," he nodded distractedly. "I'm, um, I'm just gonna, I'm just gonna go outside, and, and, and…"

"And spend some quality time with the other classic lady in your life?" she suggested.

He smiled a bit desperately. "Yeah, my Baby needs some attention," he nodded vigorously, and bolted from the room.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Dean? Dean!" Sam called out into the yard. He checked up the tree, just in case. "Dean, we've finished." No answer. "Dean, you have to come and drink this stuff." No answer. "Actually, it doesn't smell bad, a bit like apples, strangely enough."

Dean appeared from among the car bodies, Jimi at his heels. He wore the expression of a man on his way to the gallows.

"Where the hell have you been, you idiot?" asked Sam.

"Hiding, and waiting for the ground to open up and swallow me," his brother replied, looking strangely embarrassed, an unusual state of affairs for the Living Sex God. "I've screwed up, Sammy, I've screwed up so bad, I don't know how to fix it…"

"You come in and drink this stuff," Sam told him, "Then everything will be all right."

"Will it?" Dean lifted miserable eyes. "God, Sam, the last few days, I thought I was convincing her of how awesome I could be for her – I scared her off! She thinks I'm a sex-obsessed womaniser! How do I apologise for that?"

_You __are__ a sex-obsessed womaniser_, thought Sam, keeping that unhelpful observation to himself. "Once this curse is lifted, I think you'll find she's more inclined to laugh about it," Sam reassured him. Dean followed him indoors, radiating misery, and drank the brew Bobby had prepared without complaint.

"So, how do you feel?" asked Bobby, watching as Dean blinked hard a couple of times hiccupped, then burped heartily.

The older Winchester stared into the bottom of the mug for a long moment, and flushed. "Like an idiot," he muttered. "I'm going outside." He marched back out to the yard to sit in the Impala, Jimi sticking close to him for moral support.

"Did he drink it?" asked Ronnie, wandering in from the living room.

"Took his medicine like a good boy," grinned Bobby, "Now he's sittin' in his car, hopin' he gets hit by a meteor or a highly localised miniature tornado before he has to come inside again." He frowned at her. "Just you stay in here and let him process this before you start in on his ass," he instructed, "Right now he'll be beating himself up without any help from you."

"You're no fun anymore," Ronnie sighed melodramatically.

"It's just the way Dean works," Sam explained, Denial is his middle name. You want to tease him when he comes back in… get in line," he grinned.

Dean stayed in his car for more than an hour before he came back in, headed for the refrigerator and took out two beers.

"Where is she?" he asked Bobby.

"Out on the porch," Bobby replied. Sam carefully kept his eyes on the book he was reading. Dean took a deep breath, and determinedly headed back outside. He found Ronnie, and handed her a beer.

"By way of an apology," he told her.

She smiled, and contemplated the bottle. "You know, you Yanks can't brew beer to save yourselves," she told him with a grin, "But in this case, it's the gesture that counts." She twisted the top off, and drank.

Dean sat down next to her. "Look, I'm not good at, uh, saying stuff," he admitted.

"I disagree," she said quickly, "In the last couple of days, you've been amazingly articulate. Got quite a vocabulary. And an imagination." His face flushed again.

"Okay, I deserved that," he agreed, "But I wanted to say… I'm sorry. This curse, you know, I think it's been… affecting me."

"No, really?" She cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, really," he sighed. "I've been throwing myself at you like a bull at a gate, but... I should have listened to Sam," he finished. "He was right. You do not want that."

"Well, all sorted out now, hey?" she grinned at him.

"Yeah," he grinned back. "Sam says I'm an idiot. And I am." He slid closer. "You don't want me to jump on you," he told her softly, "You're not like that. You're not like any other woman I've ever been with. I was so worried that you didn't want me, but I was too damned horny to see... you were just afraid."

She choked on a mouthful of beer, gawping at him in disbelief.

He patted her on the back, and slid an arm around her shoulders. "It's okay, Ronnie," he reassured her, "We'll take things slow, until you're ready." Before she could protest, he gathered her into his arms. "You're like me, I guess," he mused, "Hunting is all you know. You just need someone to be... gentle with you."

"Yeeeeeeep," went Ronnie, her eyes bugging.

He planted a small kiss on her temple, and hugged her close, stroking her hair. "I understand now," he whispered. "I do. You've been saving yourself. Until the right guy came along... and here I am. Oh, Ronnie," he sighed happily, "I'm going to make it so good for you..."

The beer bottle slid from her nerveless fingers.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

In the living room, Sam's phone chirruped with a message. He flipped it open, and frowned.

"That's odd," he mused, "It's from Ronnie. She's just outside."

"What does it say?" asked Bobby, looking up. Sam handed the phone over to show him the single word on the screen.

_HALP!_

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Syrup Topping on the Nekkid Deans Of Life.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Well, this is an… interesting development," mused Bobby, craning his neck to get a better look out the window at the strange scene playing out on his porch.

"He's not just apologising, is he?" asked Sam. "They're… Dean's cuddling."

"Balls," growled Bobby. "You go do a recce, Sam," he instructed, "I'll get that damned book."

With plenty of foot-stamping, door-banging and throat-clearing to announce his approach, Sam made his way out onto the porch. Dean was hugging Ronnie, who had gone still in his embrace, the way a rabbit grabbed by a fox will freeze in fright. Jimi, Joni and their sister Janis sat watching, their heads cocked in curiosity. Sam could practically hear the confused canine conversation.

_My Alpha wishes to mate your Alpha._

_I do not understand. She is not receptive. _

_Will your Alphas pair-bond? He seeks it. He reeks of it. Will they Den?_

_She does not want pups. She has told me this, when she Changes._

_If he takes her as his bitch, our Pack will have an Alpha Pair…_

_We will Hunt as a Pack, brother!_

_Yes. And I will never mate. Just like Second. Only he doesn't seem to mind…_

"Er, hi, guys," he started, smiling uncertainly, "Everything okay?"

"Everything's just peachy, Sam," replied Dean contentedly, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

"Yeah, peachy," echoed Ronnie faintly, eyeing him desperately.

"Er, good, that's good," said Sam, "Because Bobby thinks there might have been, um, a problem with the charm."

"What, you think?" giggled Ronnie, an edge of hysteria to her voice.

"Nope, no problem at all, bro," Dean reassured him, "It worked like, well, it worked like a charm." He grinned. "It's lifted the curse, so I can really see what's right in front of me. And do this right. I will, Ronnie, I promise, I will do the right thing by you." He smiled, then kissed her hair, resting his chin on top of her head.

"Saaaaam," trilled Ronnie quietly, "Doooooo something!"

"I'm just gonna… go back inside, and, and, and help Bobby," he stuttered, backing away slowly. Ronnie's eyes followed him, at first pleading, then desperate, then angry. He fled in the face of an expression that spoke louder than any voiced threat.

_Taller. Hairier. I think I'll start with your liver, while you're still alive. I always did like paté…_

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"What happened Bobby?" she asked through clenched teeth later, having persuaded Dean to at least move back indoors. "Whatever you did, it's made things worse!"

"Is this actually worse than syrup and aprons?" queried Sam, gesturing at Dean, who sat at a gentlemanly distance from Ronnie on the sofa, watching her with a quietly adoring expression. She glared back at him.

… _After devouring your liver, I will move on to your kidneys…_

"I think it just didn't work, and the curse is just moving along." theorised Bobby, scratching his head, consulting the book. "Maybe it's the wording, here – specifies that the Righteous Man attempting to, er, seduce a virgin is cursed to do so against his nature. This sort of thing isn't exactly completely contrary to himself's natural inclinations. Just not godly and devout enough, in that regard."

"Could be you're not technically_ pure_ enough, too," added Sam, his eyebrows wiggling like children with worms.

"Thank you for that thought, Sam," said Ronnie pleasantly. _Actually, I will only eat one of your kidneys, I am going to make you eat the other one yourself…_

"Aint nothing we can do about it tonight, folks," declared Bobby, yawning, "So I suggest we tackle this again in the morning, after a decent night's sleep. In our OWN beds," he added, frowning at Dean.

Dean stood up, a miffed expression on his face. "I have apologised to Ronnie for my cursed behaviour," he announced, "And I intend to behave like the gentleman I know she wants me to be." He flashed a brief, not-R-rated version of The Killer Smile at her, leaned in and pecked on the cheek. "Good-night, sweetheart," he said fondly, then headed upstairs. "I call first on the shower."

Ronnie groaned and dropped her head into her hands. "Kill me now," she moaned.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_More of them came at him, screeching, slashing, biting. He was out of ammo, so he pulled his knife, cutting the throat of the first one at it struck at him, then spinning to sink it into the gut of the one that had tried to get behind him. He heard a snarl as Jimi grabbed one with his hellteeth, shaking the body as a terrier would shake a rat, then dropping the corpse to resume his tracking. _

_It wasn't a difficult trail to follow – splashes of blood, and more corpses showed that she hadn't gone quietly. Shit, there were so many of them, an entire order of evil nuns. If his search wasn't so desperate, it would be funny…_

"_Which way, fella? Which way?" gasped Dean, getting his breath back. The place was a rabbit warren of hallways that all looked the same, bare and unadorned. They turned a corner…_

_His breath caught in his throat._

_She'd gone down fighting. The pile of torn bodies and shredded habits around her was testament to that. Now, slumped in a corner, still clutching her knife, she was grinning, her face a mask of blood, as the evil Mother Superior stood over her._

"_You will be consecrated, my child," the crone crooned to her, "Your purity and chastity will be preserved within these walls, and you shall remain innocent of the corrupting touch of man…"_

_Ronnie coughed weakly. "When he gets here, we will both end up utterly screwed," she spat, "But I'm the only one who's going to enjoy it…"_

"_Hey, am I interrupting?" Dean said cockily, stalking forward. "You know, you and your order have totally ruined a cherished fantasy for me. For that alone, you deserve to die."_

_The evil nun pulled off her wimple, twisting it into a garrotte, "You shall not defile her!" she hissed. "She will be a Bride of this Order!"_

_A Dean Winchester smirk played across his lips. "Yeah, she's gonna get married all right," he drawled quietly, "But not to this place."_

_He threw his knife. It hit the hag in the throat, and she died in a very loud, impressively gory and dramatic way. There was green slime involved._

_Ronnie's smartass defiance crumbled as he swept her into his arms. "Oh Dean, oh Dean, it was horrible. They wanted me to stay here," she sobbed, face buried in his shirt, "They wanted me to stay here, and never see you again, and be a virgin for the rest of my liiiiiiiiife…"_

"_It's okay, it's okay, I'm here," He shushed and soothed, reassuring her. She pulled back, and smiled shakily._

"_I knew you'd come to get me," she sniffed between hitching breaths, her chest heaving in a most fetching fashion under a shirt that was conveniently torn so as to provide glimpses of the assets beneath. "I knew you'd save me. I knew you'd never let me die here, alone, a virgin."_

"_You better believe it," he grinned, standing up with her in his arms. _

_She gave him a brave wobbly little smile. "My hero," she murmured, and rested her head on his shoulder._

_He carried her out of the building with Jimi at his heels. The entire convent exploded in a very large and spectacularly cinematic manner behind him. _

_He put her down on the back seat of the Impala, wiping blood from her face, checking her injuries. "They won't stop," she said matter-of-factly, "They'll try again."_

"_Then I'll come rescue you again," he smiled. "We'll make them stop. I'll fix it. I'll find a way."_

_She laughed a little at that. "Oh, Dean," she said fondly, putting a hand to his face, "Sometimes, you can be so dense. There is a way." She writhed slowly backwards on the seat, leaning back on her elbows. "All you have to do is… fix it."_

_His breath caught at the invitation. "Are… are you sure?" he asked, not daring to believe his ears._

"_Such a gentleman. Always such a gentleman. My hero. My Dean." She stroked his face lovingly, and her smile was amazingly gorgeous, inviting, and just a little bit wicked. "Absolutely and utterly sure," she told him, taking his hand and pulling him into the back seat. "Dean Winchester, I want you to ruin me," she whispered in his ear, her lips brushing briefly against his neck, with a low growl in her voice that set his pulse pounding. "Ruin me for the Evil Sisterhood. Ruin me for anybody else. Ruin me for everybody…. except you."…_

_Jimi stood sentinel outside the car. There were no sounds, except the crack and pop of the burning rubble of the convent, and the gentle, familiar squeaking of the Impala's suspension…_

_creak creak creak creak creak_

Sam realised he was grinding his teeth. He forced himself to relax. Not easy to do, when your big brother is in the bed next to yours, apparently trying to get to home base with his pillow.

_creak creak creak creak creak_

Enough is enough, thought Sam. He could lie here and cringe, or he could try to do something that might help fix this mess. He pulled the covers over his head, put his hands together, and closed his eyes, whispering into the night.

"Now I lay here, wide awake  
>My will to live about to break,<br>I pray for help to Castiel,  
>Because the nights are living Hell,<p>

On Dean, there is a witch's curse  
>And day by day, it's getting worse.<br>The curse has made the man fixate  
>On taking Ronnie for his mate.<p>

This situation has a hitch,  
>For really, Dean thinks she's a bitch,<br>In fact, he doesn't like her much,  
>And she's not fond of him, as such.<p>

But now he's cursed, he must pursue her,  
>Wants to woo her, wants to screw her,<br>If she does reject him, sadly  
>This whole thing will finish badly.<p>

Castiel, please come and visit.  
>If we have a hope, this is it…<p>

And if I die while I'm asleep,  
>At least I will not hear a peep.<p>

Amen."

"Probably just needs a bit more lubrication, that'll stop that noise," mumbled Dean.

Sam gathered his comforter, and headed for the sofa in the living room.

* * *

><p>Come on, who better to offer advice on matters of the heart than an Angel of the Lord? Reviews are the Cheesy Romances hurled merrily into the Bonfire Of Life.<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

_Some Pre-Emptive Rambling From The Author_

Okay, hands up, who's still here, having been deemed too sinful to be spirited away by The Rapture? My word, there are a lot of us... never mind, if all the self-righteous weirdos have been magicked away up to Heaven, then the Hell on Earth promised might just be that little bit more bearable. Apparently, the Apocalypse will be starting shortly, and go until October. Bring a plate. Dress is neat casual.

Having received this, I thought I should include this little venture into verse by our very own regular visitor to the Jimiverse, Bartlebead (descendant of Dr Erasmus Bartlebead, one time Headmaster of Fardlehaus Hall and spanker of Dean Winchester). She didn't give it a title, so I have called it: 'The Story So Far...'

I really think this chapter's ace  
>Tho' at times I wanted to cover my face,<br>For Ronnie's trying very hard  
>To keep Dean off her in the yard<p>

Was, sadly, not succeeding well -  
>Poor Dean was thinking all was swell.<br>An embarrassing business all around,  
>Even for the half-hell-hounds.<p>

What's going on none can quite tell,  
>The curse is one e'en Bobby can't quell.<br>I hope they fix it pretty soon,  
>'Cause Ronnie's about to howl at the moon.<p>

Well done, and thank you Bartlebead.

**On the nature of angels (one in particular)...**

Look, us lot Down Here aren't getting Season Six – we've only had about a quarter of Season Five, in fact – but I understand that Cas has been on the gear at the end of S6 and is consequently suffering from the angelic equivalent of steroid-induced psychosis. However, I like nerdy, clueless, leaves-a-trail-of-complete-WTF-and-confusion-in-his-wake Castiel, so he's the one I'm sticking with. It's my Jimiverse, and I'll make my angels how I want. So nerny nerny ner.

* * *

><p><strong>SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE: DELETED SCENE FROM 'PRINCE CHARMING'<strong>

_In a virtual living room somewhere in Fanficland..._

**Lampito:** elf, why are you lying there covered in a sheet? Are you practising to be a tired ghost next Halloween?

**elf:** No, I'm practising to be a mattress.

_Later than evening in the Jimiverse..._

_creak creak creak hee hee creak creak hee hee_

**Dean:** Errrrrh aaaaaaarh oooooeeerrrrr

**Sam:** Dean! Dean! Wake up! Your mattress is giggling!

**Dean:** eerrgggglll... hmf? Huh? Wha'?

_Hee hee_

**Dean:** Okay, that's weird. I'm going downstairs to sleep on the sofa.

_Hee hee_

**Sam:** Hey, mattress, what's so funny?

**Dean's Mattress:** Ask me why PaulatheCat and aeicha were dressing up as cushions earlier...

**Sam:** Um, I think I'll just try to go back to sleep. My pillow feels lumpy...

_Hee hee_

**Sam:** ...

_Hee hee_

**Sam:** Er, mattress? Do you know why my pillow is giggling?

**Dean's Mattress:** Ask me why Ciya was wearing a pillow slip earlier...

**Dean (yelling from downstairs):** Saaaaam! The sofa touched me!

**Bobby's sofa:** Hee hee

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7 (no, really)<strong>

"Where's your devoted suitor?" asked Sam, taking in the silence in the living room.

"He's outside spending some quality time with his car," replied Ronnie.

"How the hell did you manage that?" queried Sam.

"It was a stroke of brilliance," commented Bobby, "She told him that she'd never forgive herself if he neglected his first true love on her account, and his Baby was looking a bit dusty. Could come back to bite you on the ass, though," he cautioned, "If the way he's was shinin' up the back seat is anything to go by, I'd say you've been givin' him ideas..."

"I had to do something!" complained Ronnie. "At least he's stop serenading me. For a given value of 'serenade'. 'Aural assault' might've been a better description." She paused. "Seriously, Def Leppard? I'll never be able to listen to that album again." She shuddered. "And I suspect that his unique rendition of 'Heaven and Hell' would have another Ronnie rolling in his grave..."

Joni suddenly sat up from her place at Ronnie's feet, trotted over to Sam and barked twice.

"Hey, girl, what's that about?" he asked, ruffling her ears.

" 'Dodge'," translated Ronnie from the Canine, without looking up, "Although I don't know what she..."

Joni took matters into her own paws, butting at Sam to make him step backwards. At the flapping noise, she turned and jumped upwards.

"Hello Sa... oh!" said Castiel, as Joni's paws landed on his chest. He cocked his head, studying the dog. "Your dog has shrunk."

"Hello, Cas," said Sam with a brief eye-roll, "This is Jimi's sister, Joni. She's smaller."

"Ah, yes." Castiel looked harder at the dog. "Canines display sexual dimorphism, in which males are usually physically larger and stronger, although females often have a greater capacity for guile in conflict, rendering the females of the species just as deadly as the males." He stared at the dog, who was grinning up at him. "I do not wished to be licked by you," he cautioned. "I have had this conversation with your brother on a number of occasions. I do not in fact enjoy having you in my... personal space. If you do not understand, Dean can explain this to you. He is extremely articulate on the subject of Personal Space." Joni took the hint, and sat. "Thank you. Please also refrain from sniffing at my vessel's groin. I find it... disquieting. And somehow concerning. Dean says that no sane man can be happy about having Hellhound teeth that close to his junk. Although he seems contrastingly blasé about having human teeth extremely close, given that the human mouth harbours an astonishing number of micro-organisms, some of which are..."

"Thanks for dropping in, Cas," Sam cut in, "I take it you got my p-mail."

"...And human teeth are capable of inflicting... yes, yes, I did." Castiel looked around. "Your message mentioned that he was being affected by a curse. Where is he?"

"He's outside. Yeah, he got hit by a Prince Charming curse. And this is the object of his occult-assisted affection, Ronnie... Ronnie?" Sam turned to make an introduction, and saw Ronnie sitting open-mouthed, staring at Castiel, the laptop forgotten on the floor where it had slid from her lap.

"He... he... he..." she gasped, gawping at the angel. "He..."

"Er, is something wrong?" asked Sam.

She kept staring, and pointed at Castiel. "He... he..." she tried again. Words failing, she flapped her hands up and down, finally managing, "Wi... wi... wings..."

Sam stared at her. "You can see his wings?" he asked.

Bobby snorted in amusement. "Looks like your camouflage needs work, Feathers," he chuckled.

Castiel frowned at Ronnie, then shrugged slightly. She blinked, and giggled bemusedly. "Gone now," she announced.

Castiel turned to Bobby. "Bobby, were you aware that this woman is a werewolf?" he asked. "An old breed of werewolf. However, there is no cause for alarm. I shall smite her." He was suddenly holding his angelic blade. "I apologise in advance for the mess this will leave on your floor. It will be temporary. I will return and restore your carpet when I have disposed of the carcass."

"No!" yelped Sam, "No! She's... yeah, we know, but she's got in under control. She's a Hunter, Cas." The angel paused, and studied Ronnie like a scientist finding an interesting colony of bacteria down the microscope.

"Saaaaam," began Ronnie nervously, "Creepy man, creepy man with wings, suddenly appearing creepy man, creepy staring man, creepy man doing creepy staring, creepy staring wingy man, wingy creepy man is creepy..."

"It's okay, Ronnie," Sam reassured her, 'He's, um, a friend. This is Cas. He does the eye-sex thing to everybody. Even Dean. Especially Dean. You just get used to it."

"I am Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven," Castiel introduced himself, and continued to stare hard at Ronnie.

She gawped back. "An... angel?" she echoed incredulously, "A fucking _angel_?"

"An Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven," repeated Castiel, "Although I am not a... fornicating angel. Angels do not 'fuck', as you use the term, in their true forms; however, Dean did once take me to a Den Of Iniquity, insisting that I needed to... experience fornication in my human vessel, not having done so before, having told me that it was even better than ice-cream, which I found difficult to believe, although I have pointed out to him repeatedly that Lust is one of the sins, and since we were actually chased from the house of ill repute before the young lady in question had removed her garments this did not take place, nor did I seek to experience it after that, so technically it would be more accurate to describe me as a non-fucking angel, or perhaps a chaste angel is a more elegant expression..."

"Yeah, he's Dean's angel," Sam supplied.

Ronnie swallowed. "Dean has a pet angel?" she asked dubiously.

"I gripped him tight, and raised him from Perdition," said Castiel seriously. "The closest description that might apply may be 'guardian' angel. There is no such thing as a 'pet' angel, despite the more incomprehensible fantasies concocted by a small but determined group of persons in the online community calling themselves Destiel fans; a number of contributions by the less mentally balanced individuals of this subpopulation do include a collar and leash, but that does not mean..."

"Er, what Cas here is trying to say," Sam cut in, elbowing Castiel in the ribs, "Is that it's a long story, and he's a, er, friend." He smiled brightly. Ronnie's expression suggested that she was considering backing away slowly, without breaking eye contact.

Castiel continued to stare at her. "You are Veronica Claire Shepherd," he went on, "An Abomination with... control? Such a thing is dangerous." He tilted his head. "You should not have succeeded – the first attempt should have killed you." He turned back to Sam. "I should smite her."

"You do that, and you'll have Dean to answer to, after I open the first can of whoop-ass on you," growled Bobby, as Ronnie gaped in confusion and outrage at Castiel's mind-reading. Bobby handed over the witch's spell book to Castiel, while Sam filled him in on the details of the curse, and the failed attempt to dispel it.

"So, right now, he's decided that she is The One," finished Bobby, "If you touch one hair on her head, he'll find a way to turn you into a feather duster."

"If he doesn't, I will," growled Ronnie, "And I'll use your harp as a cheese grater."

"Look, for the moment, can we just, um, forget about, uh, informed consenting mutual smiting, and see if we can figure out how to break this curse?" asked Sam. "Any ideas, Cas? Can you help?"

Castiel scanned the witch's spell book, and the charm they'd already tried. "I do not believe so," he told them, finally. "This sort of curse is very old. It is as old as jealousy. Further, I believe that the charm you attempted to use to break it may have accelerated its progress."

"Yeah, that's what we figured," sighed Sam glumly. He sat down heavily on the sofa, rubbing his face. "I just don't know what else to try," he admitted wistfully. "We're out of ideas here, Cas."

The angel looked thoughtful. "Have you considered letting the curse run its course?" he asked.

"What? What? No!" declared Sam. "You've seen the book, letting this thing run to its logical conclusions means..."

"They marry. They kiss. The curse lifts." Castiel turned back to Ronnie. "Consider the intention of the curse," he explained. "The man pursues the woman. If she rejects him, he is driven to homicide or suicide or both. If she accepts him, the marriage goes ahead, the curse lifts, and he is left in an impossibly difficult situation. However, in this case," he nodded at Ronnie, "The object if his pursuit is cognisant of the curse's existence. She will not be emotionally devastated by this, as a woman would be if she was courted, then suddenly found her new husband wanting to leave her immediately. The final outcome will be some embarrassment for Dean, but it will not prove fatal."

Bobby removed his hat, and scratched his head. "Could be that the dent in his dignity will never come out... but what he says makes sense, Sam," he said reluctantly. "Maybe we shouldn't be tryin' to stop this thing – maybe we should just encourage it along, get it to its, er, logical conclusion as quickly as possible."

"But... but..." stuttered Sam, "That'll mean that they actually have to get..."

"Not really," contributed Ronnie, with an expression and of pained resignation, "Marriage requires a certificate and a registration, that's all. Any ceremony is just for show. If we go through with a wedding... bloody hell, I can't believe I'm even thinking about agreeing to go through with this..." She sighed. "You owe me for this, Singer," she grumbled, "You owe me, a bottle of Bundaberg at the very least..."

"Okay. Okay." Sam let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "We can do this. All we gotta do, is prompt Dean into popping the question." He looked at Bobby, feeling completely out of his depth. "How the hell do we do that?"

"If you can figure that out, write a book, 'cause millions of women all over the world will want a copy," grinned Bobby.

"I will speak to him," suggested Castiel, "At the very least, I may be able to estimate the extent of the curse's progression." There was a flap of trench-coat, and he was gone.

"An angel?" asked Ronnie, still in disbelief, "You have a friend who is an _angel_?" She looks confused. "What's a Destiel?"

"It really is a long story," Sam told her. "And don't ask."

"Right now, he thinks he's a Cupid," mused Bobby, "Who'da thunk it?"

"I'm happy for him to try, so long as he leaves his clothes on," specified Sam, "We've had enough unexpected nudity around here recently to last... well, forever, really."

"Well, on the bright side, clothes or not, he can't make things worse," mused Bobby, putting his book away. He paused as a thought struck him. "Er, Sam," he asked carefully, "Does he know that Dean doesn't know that Ronnie's a... er, Abomination?"

"Oh, shit," moaned Sam.

Ronnie sighed. "Maybe if I'm lucky, he'll come back and smite me after all," she said. I've never been smited – smote – smat? – I've never had that happen to me before. And I hear that Purgatory is nice this time of year."

* * *

><p>Kudos to Ciya, who figured out where this was going three chapters ago.<p>

Reviews are the Amusingly Mentally Unhinged Authors in the LiveJournal Of Life.


	8. Chapter 8

...With love poem in questionable taste from Dean, as requested by Gasoline Saccharine, because requests from The Denizens of the Jimiverse can so much more amusing than what I can come up with alone...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

Castiel found Dean in one of Bobby's sheds, fiddling with bits of wire, small broken pieces of indicator lens, and a soldering iron. "Hello, Dean."

"Cas! How many times do I have to say it? Personal! Space!" yelped Dean in exasperation. "Especially if somebody is holding a soldering iron. You want holes in your trench coat?"

"My apologies. No, thank you, I do not require any perforations in my attire." Castiel stepped back.

"So, what brings the Upstairs Sheriff to town?" asked Dean, turning back to his project. "You needed to get out from behind the desk?"

"I was... passing by, and decided to visit," said Castiel. "That is something that friends do."

"Yeah, yeah it is," grinned Dean. "Actually, your timing is pretty good. I've got some really good news, Cas."

"If this concerns Ronnie, I have met her," Cas told him, "And Sam has told me that you believe her to be the woman you wish to partner with permanently." He tilted his head. "You are aware of her... condition?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course," smiled Dean, turning back to his project. "She told us, already. She was so shy about it. It was kinda sweet, really."

"That is not surprising," commented the angel, "I imagine it is not something she would willingly advertise. Especially to someone like you."

"I was a little disappointed that she didn't trust me enough to tell me from the get-go," sighed Dean. "I nearly scared her off, chasin' after her."

"You... pursued her, initially?" asked Castiel. "You... Hunted her?"

"Yeah, I guess I did," laughed Dean, "Goin' in for the kill, with all guns blazing."

"That is not surprising, given your instincts for this sort of thing," commented Castiel. "Certainly, I would have thought that her... condition would have precluded her from your... intimate intentions."

"Me too," conceded Dean. "But, well, when I found out, it just struck me – the minute I laid eyes on her, I just knew there was something about her that made her... different. I just have to be careful with her, Cas."

Castiel nodded. "Under the circumstances, if you are determined to proceed, caution would be prudent," he agreed. "What are you doing out here, Dean?"

"Spending some time with my Baby, and thinking," answered Dean. "Ronnie said I should spend more time with my Baby. She said she doesn't want to smother me, she wants me to have time and interests of my own. She practically _sent_ me out here to work on my car! How many women would do that, huh?" He sighed happily. "So, while I was doing that, I was thinking... I'll never find another woman like her, Cas."

"The probability is extremely low," the angel commented.

"Yeah, and so, well..." Dean held up the object he'd been working on. It consisted of several strands of wire, in an intricate interwoven pattern, with a small, delicately carved piece of red indicator lens embedded in the circle...

In the ring.

"What do you think, Cas?" asked Dean hopefully. "Do you think she'll like it?"

Castiel searched his memory for rites and rituals pertaining to formal human pair-bonding, and formulated his answer carefully. "I believe that it is exactly what is required for the situation," he replied.

"Great. Great." Dean's smile was a combination of happiness and nervousness. "I'm gonna go now, before I lose my nerve," he stated, a determined look on his face. "Don't give me away."

"I will not," promised Castiel, disappearing with his customary flapping rustle.

"Dean is heading back here," he announced in the living room. "It appears that the curse is proceeding more rapidly than I had anticipated. I believe he intends to propose."

"What? _Now?"_ squeaked Ronnie, eyes wide in horror.

"He has made a ring for you," continued Castiel. "Traditionally, your response should be to gasp, be rendered speechless with surprise and delight, smile, extend your arm to admire it, then burst into tears, followed by a tight embrace and declarations of undying love. It is also customary to kiss for an extended period of time, a minimum of eight seconds, during which your tongues will..."

"Gah! Creepy wingy man!" wailed Ronnie.

"I can see that Cas will be able to guide you all the way through this," said Sam, "But he's right, for now, we need rendered speechless with joy, Ronnie, this is supposed to be the happiest day of your life."

"So, big smile, and radiating unalloyed bliss, and barely-contained anticipation of conjugal ecstasy," prompted Bobby.

"I think I'd rather be smat," she said in a small forlorn voice.

"It'll all be over soon, Ronnie," Bobby told her sympathetically, "So just concentrate on the satisfaction you'll get when this is all over and you're payin' out on his ass, so I told him, that won't work, you're gonna need to use consecrated iron," he smoothly changed the subject as they heard the back door bang, and they scrambled to arrange themselves casually on the furniture.

"So, er, what happened?" asked Sam.

"Well, o' course, the idjit wouldn't listen to me, so I told him, fine, you get your ass shot full of quills from a Mutant Demonic Giant Soul-Eating Six-Legged Porcupine, don't come runnin' to me... hey, boy, you finished with your car?" he asked as Dean came into the room, looking slightly breathless.

"Yeah. Yeah, my Baby's good." His eyes found Ronnie, and he took a deep breath. "Ronnie I have something to ask you."

"Er, okay, sure," she managed to get the proportions of grimace/grin just above the 49%/51% mark. "What can I do for you?"

He cleared his throat, and went down on one knee in front of the chair where she sat.

"Ronnie, it is true we haven't always got along,  
>If I was the Marines in 'Nam, you were the Viet Cong,<br>I thought you were a smart-ass bitch, a smug and know-all cow,  
>I called you The Dog Fisterer – but that's all over now.<p>

It's true the life I've lived so far is anything but chaste –  
>I couldn't let my awesomeness and talents go to waste –<br>But now I find I've seen the truth, thanks to a witch's hex:  
>There's more to life than frequent, awesome, mattress-scorching sex.<p>

So though it may be sad for all the women yet to meet  
>The Living Sex God's awesomeness, and swoon before his feet,<br>In bed, or car, or swimming pool, or even up a tree –  
>Please, make of me an honest man: please, Ronnie... marry me?"<p>

He proffered the ring he'd made.

_And now, it's the routine we've been waiting for, the Eyebrow Trampolining Men's Pairs U.S. and Olympic champions, R. Singer and S. Winchester, take the floor to defend their World title, their Coach Castiel watching intently from the sidelines._

Ronnie got the gasp right, and the astonished look of 'WTF?', although there wasn't much acting required for that bit.

"Er, I don't know what to say..." she stumbled, turning the smile grinometer up to 60% at the urging of her cheer squad. _They've opened with a triple arch-and-urge, perfect timing.. ._"...Except... er... yes. Yes." With a certain amount of background prompting_, ...and there's the move they've made their own, the We've-Got-Worms-Waggle..._ she stuck her hand out for him to slide the ring onto her ring finger, then held it out, inspecting it.

"What do you think?" Dean asked anxiously.

"Hmmmm? Oh, sorry, I was a bit busy being overcome with wordless joy, there," she said. _Oh, and there's a synchronised face-palm with wince (degree of difficulty 3.1)._ "What? Oh. Er. I... love it. Yes, I love it. It's perfect. It's absolutely perfect and I love it. Because it's perfect. Um."

"Oh, Ronnie," he said thickly, pulling her into a crushing embrace, "I'm so happy, and I'm going to make you so happy, I promise..."

_HALP HALP HALP hey mind-reading creepy angel HALP HALP HALP_ thought Ronnie furiously. Fortunately, Sam swooped in to rescue her before there could be tongue involvement, levering her out of Dean's clutches and grabbing him into a brotherly hug.

"Congratulations, big bro," he said with a happy smile, "I'm so happy for you." Ronnie scuttled away, and made a show of showing her ring to Castiel.

"Well done, son," said Bobby warmly, "Although I doubt anyone could make an honest man of you."

"Oh, I've trained dogs up since I was a kid, a... husband... can't possibly be all that different," Ronnie told him, nearly choking on the h-word. Dean grinned, and caught her around the waist, planting a kiss on her temple.

"Don't you pay any attention to him," he scoffed, "He'll be laughing out the other side of his face when we present him with his first practically-grandchild..."

_And there's the big finish: both eyebrows disappearing completely into the hairline (degree of difficulty 3.25)..._

"Er, I don't know how likely that is," Ronnie quavered when she found her voice again, "Maybe I should be flattered that you haven't noticed, but I'm not exactly a spring chicken. More like a boiler."

Castiel stared hard at her again. "That is not the case," he told her, "The proportion of first time mothers over forty in the Western world has been increasing annually for the past decade; in fact, the older a woman is, the higher is her probability of a multiple birth. Further, the women of your family's maternal line have enjoyed undiminished fecundity into middle age for several generations, and given the increased robustness imparted by your condition..."

"Saaaaam, he's being creepy..." wailed Ronnie.

"...Further, given the current progression of your reproductive cycle, should you copulate within the next seventy-two hours, there is a very high chance that you will conceive, in fact, you have ovulated two fertile ova, which means you could theoretically become gravid with quadruplets..."

"CAS!" barked Sam as Ronnie let out a squawk of horror and clutched at Dean (that's how horrified she was).

"Hey, if it happens, it happens," Dean told her soothingly with a smile, "Although I kinda like the idea of having a whole pack of little Hunters, on the road..."

"I... I... I think I'll just go back to being speechless with joy for a bit," said Ronnie faintly.

"I have a friend a couple of counties across, Reverend Tim," mentioned Bobby casually, "He's reasonably well known in the Hunting fraternity, I'm sure he'd he'd be happy to help us out at short notice. Really short notice."

"Hear that, Ronnie?" said Dean, a dazzling smile on his face, with just a hint of the Living Sex God shining through. "Maybe we'll get to start our own pack sooner than you think."

"Oh, joy," she said.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_He was driving too fast, he knew that, and she'd be angry at him if she found out, but he couldn't help it – when he got Sam's call, his heart started hammering and his knees started shaking, and he barely brought the car to a complete stop in the hospital parking lot before he was running for the large brick building, barely pausing to ask for directions, then he was pushing through the door under a large sign reading 'Maternity'..._

_The room was a small oasis of calm, not what he was expecting at all. _

_Ronnie – his wife – looked tired, but... radiant, and so happy. She offered him the gorgeous smile that lit up her whole face, and held out her arms. He fell into them._

"_I got here as soon as I could," he apologised, "There was a whole nest of 'em, I couldn't leave before I'd finished 'em off, fucking bloodsuckers..."_

"_You wouldn't be you if you hadn't," she laughed softly, "And I'd have had your arse on a plate if you left a job unfinished."_

"_Are you... is it... was it..." he began._

"_Triplets," broke in Bobby, grinning down at the small bundle, wrapped in a blue blanket, that he held carefully. "Two boys – twins – and a girl. This is John Castiel. That," he nodded towards Cas, who held another small blue bundle, and was singing quietly to it in Enochian, "Is Robert Dean," he announced proudly._

"_And this," said Sam, jiggling a tiny body in a pink blanket, "Is Samantha Mary." He smiled at his big brother through damp eyes. "Here, would you like to meet your daughter?" Carefully, he handed his precious armful to Dean, who gazed, awestruck, into the small, sleepy face..._

_And that's where this particular dream went totally weird, because what he was staring at looked pretty much like a young sable German Shepherd, but it was probably his own fault for eating so much celebratory pizza with cheese-stuffed crust. Never mind. He handed back the pup, and decided to try for the underwater blow job dream again, because that had been totally awesome and grossing Sam out was a bonus._

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Baby Puppies in the Whelping Box of Life.<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

... with some hints about what Ronnie, as a female Hunter who's also an, er, Abomination, might look like, for Bartlebead...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

"Dean, you stop twitchin' like you got some small furry critter up your ass, and quit your worryin'," demanded Bobby gruffly.

"But Bobby," said Dean anxiously, "What if something happens? What if she... what if she doesn't come back? What if... what if she changes her mind?"

"Her mind wasn't what was changing," Sam muttered to himself; he'd happened to be standing by the window after dark when Ronnie left with Joni and Janis for her 'girls' night out'. He had seen the tall lupine figure rear up on its hind legs before dropping to its haunches and loping away through the yard, shadowed by the two Rottweiler bitches, heading for the trees. It could've been a trick of the moonlight, or the considerable amount of alcohol they'd already consumed, but he was pretty sure she'd actually _winked_ at him...

"Of course she will," the old Hunter reassured Dean, pressing another beer into his hand. "You're not supposed to see each other the night before the hitching, anyway. Everyone knows that. You spend your last night as a free man with your buddies, and she goes and does... Secret Women's Business with her girlfriends. It's traditional."

"Bobby is correct, Dean," intoned Castiel gravely. "In such matters, humans set great store by ritual and tradition. I have done some research into this subject," he added, a little proudly, "And in preparation, I have procured a supply of duct tape, and some green hair spray."

"Er, Cas, why do we need duct tape and green hair spray?" asked Sam. Cas had borrowed his laptop to research Bucks' Nights, but cyberspace was large, and it was entirely possible that he'd stumbled into the electronic lair of a particularly kooky tribe of Destiel fans, and had gotten some peculiar ideas...

"It is traditional," Castiel told him. "As Dean's friends, we are obliged to get him highly intoxicated with alcohol, then apply copious duct tape to his person and colour his hair strangely. We must then put him on a bus to a destination a few states away. However, if there is no bus terminal conveniently located nearby, duct taping him to a traffic sign on a major road is an acceptable alternative." He frowned. "There are also supposed to be scantily clad women removing their garments, but the sources I consulted were not clear on whether this happens before or after the duct tape. I am also concerned by the chemical constituents of the hair spray – I believe it would be prudent to do a small patch test somewhere inconspicuous first, to ensure that Dean will not suffer an epidermal reaction to the solvent or propellant. I did not procure shaving cream and a razor; the shaving of the groom-to-be's head is suggested as a substitute, but I did not think Dean would like that."

"Er, it's okay, Cas, I think that we can probably dispense with some of the more, uh, extreme traditions," Bobby said carefully.

"The copious amounts of alcohol bit sounds good," commented Dean, taking a long drink. There was a general murmur of agreement. Sam burped discreetly.

"Very well," said Castiel amiably, "We are also required to drink alcohol, and offer Dean advice on adjusting to married life." He looked keenly from Bobby to Sam. "Since both of you have lived with women, it might be timely for you to offer Dean some guidance."

There was a thoughtful silence.

"Happy wife equals happy life," stated Bobby, waving his beer authoritatively. "Can't put it more succinctly than that."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "And her friends. Don't fuck with The Sisterhood, bro. They network."

"Always put the seat down," said Bobby. "Don't try to argue that it has a hinge and can be easily moved up or down, just always put it down, and don't argue."

"If she says don't use her shampoo, do _not _use her shampoo," cautioned Sam, with a small shudder that suggested a lesson learned the hard way. "It will end badly."

"Socks," Bobby announced, "Socks. Very important, socks are. Put them in the laundry hamper. Or else."

"Taking garbage out is your job," Sam suggested. "Don't wait to be asked. If you do wait to be asked, for fuck's sake, don't wait to be asked twice. You WILL regret it."

"Wash the dirt off in the shower, don't get wet and wipe it off on the towels," warned Bobby, "Your life is not worth that much."

"Removal of spiders, cockroaches and any dead rodents is your job, too," added Sam.

Dean looked thoughtful. "Wow, I had no idea...this could be a bit more complicated than I thought," he mused.

"Keep your toenails trimmed," Bobby gestured with his beer to emphasise the point, "Unless you like sleeping on the sofa."

"If she ever asks if something she's wearing makes her look fat, there is only one possible answer," instructed Sam, "And that is: 'I Want My Lawyer'."

Dean hiccupped gently, and looked a little concerned. "Should I be making a list?" he asked Castiel.

"Take your boots off OUTSIDE the door," pronounced Bobby, "And you socks, too, if they got wet. See my previous comment about the extreme importance of socks, and their correct placement."

"Learn the art of wielding a toilet brush," Sam said.

"Degreasing car parts in the bath is no longer an option," sighed Bobby. "Likewise, rocker covers in the dishwasher, a no-no."

"Every time you leave your dirty clothes on the bathroom floor, a female libido fairy dies," Sam warned him.

"Every time you wash a hard floor or cook dinner, a female libido fairy has twins," Bobby grinned at him.

"Backrubs are good for female libido fairies, too," sighed Sam. "So are cups of hot chocolate in bed."

"A gentleman will always take all his weight on his elbows," insisted Bobby.

"A gentleman will always sleep on the wet spot," added Sam.

"Hey, retiring Living Sex God, here," protested Dean, "I am not going to take advice on that from Mr Vanilla and Grandpa-In-Waiting."

"I am sure that things will work out," Castiel assured him. "I will be there tomorrow. Ronnie insists that she requires my presence. Remember that it is traditional for the bride to arrive late, so do not worry."

Dean suddenly looked miserable. "I don't want green hair," he said wistfully.

"No big deal, bro," Sam reassured him, "We'll just do the drinking thing."

Dean smiled, and they opened more beers.

He also let Castiel stick a few pieces of duct tape onto him, for the sake of tradition. This seemed to make the angel inordinately pleased to have participated, and he was smiling as he left in a flap of trench coat.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Stop fidgeting!" Sam told him, slapping at his brother as he worried at his collar. "It looks fine, just stop fidgeting!"

"How do I look?" asked Dean anxiously for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last hour.

"Fine. Totally hot. Very marriageable. Any woman would want to drag you back to her lair for rampant post-wedding sex. Although she might think you have worms, if you don't stop fidgeting!"

They stood in the small church, Dean wearing the traditional expression that was a mixture of worry, excitement, and a desire to throw up. "She's late," he said plaintively, looking at his watch again. Jimi, resplendent in a white collar and bow tie, offered a whuff of moral support.

"It's traditional," Reverend Tim, a veteran of many nervous grooms, reassured him. "She will be here..."

As he spoke, they heard the doors open.

Dean turned, clearly entranced by what he saw. "Oh, wow," he breathed.

"Er, yeah," echoed Sam. "I wonder how many of those tattoos she can make dance..." he mused idly.

Ronnie walked down the aisle on Bobby's arm, the old Hunter beaming under a freshly laundered trucker's cap. She had found a strappy gown in a local Goodwill store. It had been made for a woman who was longer in the legs, larger across the assets and smaller in the arms and back, but thanks to Castiel and his supply of duct tape, it fit well enough. She carried a bunch of daisies picked from Bobby's yard. Janis and Joni, with matching daisy garlands around their collars, preceded them down the aisle. Castiel followed a couple of steps behind, wearing a shirt that had clearly been stolen from a particularly effeminate pirate who was inordinately fond of ruffles and addicted to his Bedazzler.

The muttered conversation detracted only slightly from the overall effect.

"I do not understand why I am required to do this."

"Because I need a Bridesmaid, all right? It's traditional."

"What about the dogs? Are they not your Bridesmaids?"

"They're too young, they're not even three. They're Flower Girls."

"Am I not too old, then? I was created by my Heavenly Father in a time before time..."

"Look, the alternative is Matron Of Honour, and you're not married. You're a bloody virgin too, remember?"

"Why am I carrying a bunch of flowers? Should this not be the duty of the Flower Girls?"

"No, you get to carry flowers too."

"Why?"

"I don't know, you just do! This whole wedding thing was your idea..."

"This shirt is most impractical."

"Don't you _dare_ complain to me about the practicality of formal outfits. I should've stuffed some shop rags down the front…"

"I did procure you some 'chicken fillets', after you mentioned them."

"Look, that's just what they call those fake tits things, I didn't mean _actual_ pieces of _actual_ chicken meat from an _actual_ dead chicken!"

"The braiding is making my vessel's scalp itch."

"Look, brides traditionally dress their Bridesmaids in appalling outfits to make themselves look better by contrast. Be grateful I couldn't find any green eyeshadow at the Goodwill. Or make you wear your frigging chicken fillets."

"Why is Sam's hair not braided? It is longer than my vessel's hair..."

"Because Dean thinks he's so hot he doesn't need to humiliate his Best Man to make himself look good. Besides which, I'd have to stand on a fruit box. It'd be like trying to braid a Clydesdale's tail."

"I could make his hair braid itself."

"Castiel, the Winchesters know how to kill angels. Do you think that's wise?"

"You make a salient point. However, I intend to smite this shirt as soon as the opportunity presents itself."

"If you don't shut up, I will make you dance with Sam afterwards. Oh, bugger, is that tape slipping? There's a definite draft..."

They arrived at the head of the aisle, and Reverend Tim smiled, beginning the wedding rite he'd performed so many times.

"Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining of this man and this woman in matrimony..."

They made it all the way through the ceremony with only a couple of small anxious moments – Ronnie appeared to be struggling not to snarl whilst promising to 'love, honour and... _obey_', and Sam had a hole in his dress trouser pocket which meant that the ring was finally located in his right sock – but soon enough, Reverend Tim was smiling, declaring,

"I now pronounce you... husband and wife." Then he added the final incantation. "Dean, you may kiss the bride."

"Fingers crossed," muttered Bobby.

"If this doesn't work, you do realise that she'll make sure the remaining shreds of our corpses are never found," replied Sam.

Dean smiled a dazzling Living Sex God smile, while Ronnie gulped visibly and tried desperately not to let her teeth start growing. "Come here, Mrs Winchester," he whispered, pulling her close...

He swept her into A Kiss.

The expression on Ronnie's face suggested that there were indeed tongues involved...

"Er, how long exactly will this take?" asked Sam nervously as the seconds ticked by.

"It is not clear from the spell the witch used," answered Castiel, "In fact, given the archaic language of the wording, it is possible that the curse may not actually be broken until the marriage is… consummated…"

There was a moment of horrified silence, as The Kiss continued. Ronnie started waving her bouquet of daisies in a desperate bid to attract assistance.

"…In which case, I shall definitely seek Ronnie's informed opinion on whether it is indeed better than ice-cream," finished the angel.

Sam sighed. "What worries me," he said sadly, "What worries me, is that if there are little teeny tiny pieces of me left behind, and I can't be salted and burned properly, I'll hang around and become an unhappy spirit. I mean, being torn apart by an angry, deflowered werewolf, that's gotta make a restless spirit unhappy, right?"

At that unhappy comment, there was a sudden flash of white light.

Dean and Ronnie broke apart, both bug-eyed and gawping at each other.

"Aaaargh! He did it again!" Ronnie shrieked, "He did it again! The thing with the tongue! Yuck!"

"You bit me!" Dean shot back, in angry horror, "You bitch, you bit my tongue!"

"Be thankful it's still attached! I couldn't breathe!" she countered, "Since you had it shoved down my throat! What the hell were you trying to do, lick my pancreas?"

Dean stuck his tongue out as if to inspect it for damage. "If you have damaged the second most talented organ of this awesome body, you cow, I swear, I will…" He blinked once, then twice, then a series of expressions from disbelief to outrage to horror to borderline-fatal embarrassment and back again played across his face, as the events of the last several days replayed themselves through his mind.

"GAAAAAAAAAH!' he went. "AAAAARGH!" He looked around wildly. "SAAAAAAAAAM!" One of his eyes began to twitch.

"I'd say the curse has broken," drawled Bobby, master of understatement.

A huge grin spread across Ronnie's face. "Yay!" she yelled, "I'm free! Free! Here you go, Lover Boy," she snarled, slapping her posy of daisies onto Dean's chest, "Deflower this! Yahoo!" She tore off the gown, revealing the boots, jeans and singlet top she was wearing beneath.

Castiel frowned. "That is not the type of undergarmentry usually worn by a bride beneath her wedding gown," he said with a hint of disapproval. "Traditionally, your underwear should be lacy and sheer, feminine yet hinting at wantonness. I did show you some pictures; that strapless bustier would have suited a figure such as yours, with a wide back and shoulders, compensating for your small bust by accentuating the development of your pectoral muscles…"

"YEEEEEEEP!" went Dean.

"You showed me porn, Castiel!" Ronnie growled at him, while Dean continued to have some sort of fit, not helped by the idea of admiring Ronnie's bustier-accentuated pecs. "He showed me porn!" she turned an outraged expression on Sam. "Do you have any idea how _weird _and _wrong_ and _weird_ it is to be looking at _porn_ with an _angel_?"

"Actually, since you mention it…" began Sam.

"NYAAAAAAAAAAAARF!" Dean cut him off. His eye was twitching in earnest.

"Yeah, I think I like him like this, after all," sniggered Ronnie, calling Joni to her side. "See you fellas back at the yard," she trilled, skipping back down the aisle with her dog bounding happily at her side, "I'm off to eat my own body weight in red meat to celebrate!"

"You okay, bro?" asked Sam anxiously.

"BLEEEEEEEEEGL!" went Dean.

Bobby rested a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Give him time, Sam," he suggested, "His brain just needs some time to process the, er, trauma of the last few days. We should probably be headin' back, too," he suggested. He couldn't help grinning at Dean's discomfiture. "Ah, I love me a traditional weddin'."

"Except we don't have a bride," pointed out Sam.

"FNAAAAAAAAAAARG," went Dean.

"Just a few hundred years ago," noted Castiel seriously, "In European societies, if the bride did not show up, or ran away, it was traditional for the Bridesmaid to take her place."

Dean's eyes crossed, and he fainted.

"Perhaps, in this case, the default to imbibation of copious amounts of alcohol would be more appropriate, after all," noted the angel. "In all matters pertaining to marriage, it seems to be a most useful generic tradition."

* * *

><p>Maybe just one more chapter to go, then I can get back to 'Can You Dig It?' I'm so sorry, this plot bunny was a particularly vicious one. It had a gun.<p>

Reviews are the Interesting Tattoos under the Wedding Gown Of Life.


	10. Chapterlet, the last

**Don't panic,** Dean is perfectly safe - Ronnie was not in, er, Abomination form when she bit Dean's tongue. It was just a little nip with her human teeth, to get the Living Sex God's attention. Didn't even draw blood. So he isn't going to have any sudden inconveniently obscuring body hair issues - please be assured that next time he gets his kit off, fanservice will continue as normal.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapterlet, the last<strong>

"You know, I don't think you are taller than me."

"Yes, I am. Short for an Old North werewolf, but that's usual for a female. Still taller than you."

"I don't think you are."

"I reckon I am. Taller. And bigger. Ian says I'm a magnificent specimen. Make you look like a 99-pound weakling."

"Bullshit."

"Says you. I've taken down Alpha males hand to hand."

"Yeah? We've seen one who was at least seven feet."

"Yeah. Males are bigger and stronger, but females are much sneakier, and fight dirtier."

"That's a good thing. Seeing as you're so short."

"Taller than you, still."

"No you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"Don't believe you."

"Don't care, it's still true. Shorty"

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am. Scrawny Shorty."

"No you're not, Hairy Scary."

"Why the hell are you pair of idjits laughin' like loons in here?"

"Sorry, Bobby, we're just discussing how short I'd make Sam look when I'm in… Abomination mode."

"You are totally shorter than me!"

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are!"

If you two chuckleheads can't settle this, there's only one way to sort it out."

"What about Dean?"

"Are you kidding? After the amount he drank? Big Brother Dearest will be passed out until half past next week."

"All right then. I'm game if you are. Short-stuff."

"Bring it on, Wearer Of Full Body Mohair Stocking."

"You realise that, technically, this will mean you've seen me naked?"

"Don't worry, I won't brag to Dean."

"Okay. And take your boots off. Boots is cheating."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It had to have been a dream. It _had _to have been a dream. A nightmare. Possibly a memory from Hell. That was the only explanation that his marinated mind could bear to contemplate. A witch's curse… a flight to Singer's Salvage… falling for… and pursuing… and… Oh, God…

No, Dean told himself firmly, as he sprawled on his bed, trying not to metabolise so loudly. It was all a bad dream. Obviously caused by the enormous quantities of alcohol he'd clearly consumed, because he was suffering from the Mother Of All Hangovers. He'd imagined it all. That was the only possible explanation. Because the alternative, the idea that it had actually happened… it just didn't bear thinking about.

Some time later, his body insisted that he make the perilous and arduous trek to the bathroom. All by himself. Without a guide. Somehow, in defiance of medical science, he forced his hungover-and-in-fact-still-astonishingly-intoxicated body off the bed, and upright enough to cling to the wall, and follow its reassuring solidity to the bathroom. (He tried the floor first, but he didn't trust it. It kept moving.)

As he made his way back to his bed (taking his chances on the floor this time, because the wall had apparently just been lulling him into a false sense of security, and bucked him off at the first opportunity), he heard noises from downstairs. Strange noises. Laughing. And… a strange whuffing noise. It probably wasn't a sensible thing to do, in his condition, but he made his way down the stairs, clutching at the railing.

He was glad he did, in the end, because what he saw, as he sprawled unseen in the hall, reassured him that he was actually dreaming, because that was the only possible explanation…

Sam stood. barefoot, back-to-back with an old country werewolf. He was laughing. The wolf was whuffing, its tongue lolling, a happy doggy grin just like Jimi's on its scarred face. Bobby stood behind them, on a chair, holding a ruler horizontal, grinning, and scolding them.

"This won't work if you two idjits don't stop gigglin' like school girls and hold still…"

With relief, Deam silently crawled away, back to his bed. Thank God. Proof that it had all just been a horrible, horrible dream.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Thirty-six hours later, as he took a much-needed shower, he noticed something in the mirror.

He emerged from the bathroom, terrifyingly sober, ashen-faced, bug-eyed and silent, refusing to tell Sam what was wrong.

Sometime during his comatose hangover recovery, somebody had taken a marker pen, and drawn a daisy on one of his ass cheeks. It had a smiley face on it. Underneath it were written the words:

_LICK MY SCAR._

* * *

><p>Yibbida, Yibbida, that's all folks! Thanks to those who stuck with this, after it started out as a one-shot, and offered such flattering reviews. I'm glad it gave you a giggle. Isn't that what we're here for? It's been fun filling in a few more details for Ronnie, who was only ever supposed to be to annoy Dean with. I PROMISE there will be no more stories started until I finish 'Can You Dig It?'. If you must send plot bunnies. please ask them to form an orderly queue.<p> 


	11. Some Ramblings from the Author

**Some Answers From The Author**

It occurred to me that I was being a bit rude not answering some of the questions and comments from The Denizens of the Jimiverse at the end of 'Prince Charming', and PMs have been extremely buggy for a couple of weeks now, so, please find following a few answers from what passes for The Author's mind (be warned, I'm tired and haven't had enough cups of tea today)... WARNING: I'm making this up as I go along, but that seems to be an approach that works so far.

**Ronnie bit Dean's tongue - is he a werewolf now?**

I think I specified earlier, nope - it was just a little nip with her human teeth, so Dean has not been werewolfed. If she'd used her wolf teeth, he'd have these two really neat and interesting piercings. But he's not. Except maybe his tongue. Maybe every full moon, his tongue gets hairy. I'm sure Bobby can fix it, though.

**So, who was taller in the last scene, Ronnie or Sam?**

As Official Designated Referee, Bobby was on the verge of calling a no-contest, because they wouldn't stop laughing and they both kept trying to cheat. In the end, his Informed Judge's Opinion was that they were both the same height, but if he had to call it on pain of death, Sam was a bee's dick taller. (Ronnie would later claim that this was because of his hair, so it didn't count). However, Ronnie easily won in the Who Can Pick Up The Other One By The Scruff Of The Neck Like A Naughty Puppy round, so apparently height isn't everything.

A number of years later, Sam would, with the co-operation of Ronnie and her pair-bonded mate, write what came to be regarded as the definitive work on Old North werewolves, including a surprisingly frank chapter on their sexual and breeding behaviour. That was naturally the first bit that Dean wanted to read, but he was severely disappointed to find that it was written in such clinical academic language that there was nothing at all titillating about it. He was so annoyed that he found a fan fiction site of questionable taste and wrote his own werewolf porn story, which resulted in ImpalaDude's account being cancelled, but not until after someone called K9 left a review suggesting that he clearly had more experience fantasising about it than actually doing it, while another reviewer calling himself BadPuppy simply commented "Pal, you don't know the half of it *G*".

During an unexpected reunion with Ronnie and her mate on the way to a Hunt, it was pointed out to Dean that he was the only one of the three who had not had sex with a werewolf. Sam and Ronnie's mate hinted at A Thing that female werewolves do in the bedroom ("Beyond amazing. Beyond mind-blowing. I slept for twelve hours straight afterwards. It's like having your brain sucked out through your dick"), but refused to give details, which led to Dean pestering them because he wasn't game to ask Ronnie about it.

**Are they still married?**

No, they never were. Ronnie was right; to get married, you need to register the marriage (which costs money) and have a Certificate of Marriage issued (which costs money). You don't need a ceremony at all, but the vast majority of people want one. So they are definitely not married in the sight of the State, although they might be in the sight of God, since they were married by a minister in a church ceremony. (In fact, some forty years later, it did cause a bit of a mix-up in Admin & Archives when Ronnie arrived in Heaven, and started threatening to tear angels' wings off if they didn't fix the slight administrative hitch with her own personal Heaven. "This is NOT my husband, you feathered moron! Come on, I KNOW he's here, he arrived several years ago, about this tall, grey pony tail that made him look like an ageing pimp, God I wished he'd cut it off, he's a frigging werewolf, for Christ's sake! What? No, I didn't bring the bloody receipt with me! I'm DEAD! Fuck, I want to talk to your superior. Who's your superior? Vaneriel. Makes sense, sounds like a good name for a total dick. Tell him that if I don't have Andrew here before I finish this beer, I'll slit his face and wet his bed and wrap his nostrils round his head, right? Good. Do NOT make me go looking for Castiel on this. And get this smirking Winchester the fuck out of my Heaven!")

**Is Dean going to be allowed in on the Big Hairy Secret?**

Dean found out eventually. It was an unplanned revelation, during a Hunt. Ronnie appeared and faced down a recently turned Alpha male wolf, and lured him away. Dean wanted to follow and gank the two of them, but Sam recognised her scar and tattoos, then Ronnie reverted to human, and stared him down. (Dean stuttered something like, "Er, you do realised that you're just standin' there, naked," to which Ronnie replied with a smile that showed far too many teeth, "Dean Winchester, I am NEVER naked - right now, I am merely nude.")

**Have you considered that writing more Gratuitous Sam Nudity might make you a better writer?**

Whilst I recognise that some of the laydeez (and possibly some of the boyz as well, if that's your thang) amongst The Denizens are Samgirls, Dean just seems to be the one with a propensity to get his kit orf (one word for you: "Pudding!"). Should the Fanfic Inspiration Fairy pay a visit any time soon, I shall endeavour to write some G.S.N. in somehow, but I cannot make any promises. If anyone comes up with an irresistably silly prompt, I might try. Better yet, go and write your OWN fanfic, with as much G.S.N. as you like! Then we'll come over and read it, and complain that it didn't go for long enough, or the light was too dim, or he still had his socks on so that didn't count please write another chapter and update soon.

**Write more about the Gargoyles from the end of 'Can You Dig It?' !**

I will, all I need is a visit from the Update Inspiration Fairy. They have to arrive and introduce themselves to Rumsfeld and Janis, obviously. Then presumably we find out about Tiem's dreadful dietary habits, and Zan's refusal to clean the lichen off his head. We're in trouble if gargoyles have prank wars.


End file.
